1  He  told  of  One  the  grave's  dark  bonds  who  broke, 
And  our  hearts  burned  within  us  as  he  spoke."    Page  352. 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


MRS.    HEMANS 


*        * 


WITH  MEMOIR,  EXPLANATORY  NOTES,  ETC. 


Santa  Barbara,  California 


Santa  Barbara,  California 
NEiv  YORK 

THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL    &    CO. 
46  EAST  FOURTEENTH  STREET 


CONTENTS, 


PAGB. 

PREFATORY  NOTICR.    BY  W.  M.  ROSSBTTI.  n 

The  Forest  Sanctuary 25 

The  Abencerrage 64 

The  Widow  of  Crescentius 97 

1'he  last  Banquet  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra 104 

Alaricin  Italy 107 

The  Wife  of  Asdrubal no 

Heliodorus  in  the  Temple 1 1 j 

Night-scene  in  Genoa 114 

The  Troubadour  and  Richard  Coeur  de  Ljon 117 

The  Death  of  Conradin 1 19 

Lays  of  Many  Lands — 

Moorish  Bridal  Song 123 

The  Bird's  Release 124 

The  Sword  of  the  Tomb 125 

Valkyriur  Song 129 

The  Cavern  of  the  Three  Tells. 130 

Swiss  Song 132 

The  Messenger  Bird 132 

The  Stranger  in  Louisiana 134 

The  Isle  of  Founts 135 

The  Bended  Bow 136 

He  never  Smiled  again 137 

Coeur  de  Lion  at  the  Bier  of  his  Father 138 

The  Vassal's  Lament  for  the  Fallen  Tree 139 

The  Wild  Huntsman 140 

Brandenburg  Harvest-Song 141 

The  Shade  of  Theseus 141 

Ancient  Greek  Song  of  Exile 142 

Greek  Funeral  Chant :  or,  Myriologue 143 

Greek  Partins  Song 144 

The  Suliote  Mother .  146 

The  Farewell  to  the  Dead 148 

Records  of  Woman — 

Arabella  Stuart I4<i 

The  Bride  of  the  Greek  Isle 155 

The  Switzer's  Wife i6c 

Properzia  Rossi 163 

Gertrude  ;  or  Fidelity  till  Death 16* 

Imelda 167 

Edith 170 

The  Indian  City 175 

The  Peasant  Girl  of  the  Rhone 180 

Indian  Woman's  Death-Song 183 


CONTENTS. 


Rw-ords  of  Woman,  continued,  PAGE. 

Joan  of  Arc  in  Rheitns 184 

Pauline iS6 

(liana iSS 

The  American  Forest  Girl iqo 

Costanza... 192 

Madeline KJJ 

The  Queen  of  Prussia's  Tomb 197 

The  Memorial  Pillar 198 

The  Grave  of  a  Poetess 199 

i     ^s  of  the  Affections — 

A  Spirit's  Return 200 

The  Lady  of  Provence 206 

The  Coronation  of  Inex  de  Castro 210 

Italian  Girl's  Hymn  to  the  Virgin 212 

To  a  Departed  Spirit 212 

The  Chamois  Hunter's  Love 213 

The  Indian  with  his  Dead  Child 214 

Song  of  Emigration 215 

The  King  of  Arragon's  Lament  for  his  Brother 2ift 

The  Return 218 

The  Vaudois  Wife 219 

The  Guerilla  Leader's  Vow  220 

Thekla  at  her  Lover's  Grave 221 

The  Sisters  of  Scio 222 

Bernardo  del  Carpio 223 

The  Tomb  of  Madame  Langhans 224 

The  Exile's  Dirge 225 

The  Dreaming  Child 226 

The  Charmed  Picture ' 227 

Parting  Words 228 

The  Message  to  the  Dead 229 

The  Two  Homes 229 

The  Soldier's  Deathbed 230 

The  Image  in  the  Heart 231 

The  Land  of  Dreams 233 

Woman  on  the  Field  of  Battle 234 

The  Deserted  House 235 

The  Stranger's  Heart 236 

To  a  Remembered  Picture 236 

Ome  Home 237 

The  Fountain  of  Oblivion 238 

VcUh  Melodies— 

The  Harp  of  Wales »30 

Druid  Chorus  on  the  Landing  of  the  Romans »-to 

The  Green  Isles  of  Ocean 240 

The  Sea-Sons  of  Gafran - 241 

The  Hirlas  Horn 241 

The  Hall  of  Cynddylan 241 

The  Lament  of  Llywarch  Hen , 243 

Grufydd's  Feast 244 

The  Cambrian  in  America 245 

The  Fair  Isle 245 

Taliesin's  Prophecv 24ft 

Jwen  Glynd wr's  War-Song 246 

Prince  Madoc's  Farewell 247 

Caswallon's  Triumph , 248 

Howel's  Song 248 

The  Mountain  Fires 249 

F.ryri  Wen 249 

Chants  of  the  Bards  before  their  Massacre  by  Edward  1 250 

The  Dying  Bard's  Prophecy  250 

The  Rock  of  Cader  Idris 251 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
Songs  of  the  Cid — 

The  Cid's  Departure  into  Exile 252 

The  Cid's  I Jeathbed •  •   iSS 

The  Cid's  Funeral  Procession 251 

The  Cid's  Rising 256 

The  Caravan  in  the  Deserts 256 

M.ir'ms  among  tlie  Ruins  of  Carthage • 259 

Sons;  founded  on  an  Arabian  Anecdote •  2'- ' 

The  Cross  of  the  South 262 

The  Sleeper  of  Marathon  263 

To  Miss  F.  A.  L.,  on  her  Birthday 26j 

Written  in  the  First  Leaf  of  the  Album  of  the  Same 264 

To  the  Same,  on  the  Death  of  her  Mother 264 

A  Dirge 265 

The  Maremma  266 

A  Tale  of  the  Fourteenth  Century 272 

3elshazzar's   Feast 280 

The  Last  Constantino 283 

Greek  Songs — 

1.  The  Storm  of  Delphi y>7 

2.  The  Bowl  of  Liberty 309 

3.  The  Voice  of  Scio "• 3'<> 

4.  The  Spartans'  March „ 3 " 

5.  The  Urn  and  Sword  3'i 

6.  The  Myrtle  Hough 3 '3 

Elysium 3 '3 

The  Funeral  Genius 3  '6 

The  Tombs  of  Platea 3>7 

The  View  from  Castri 3'S 

The  Festal  Hour 3  '9 

Song  of  the  Battle  of  Morgan™   322 

On  a  Flower  from  the  Field  of  Griitli 324 

On  a  Leaf  from  the  Tomb  of  Virgil 324 

1'he  Chieftain's  Son 324 

A  Fragment 325 

England's  Dead 325 

The  Meeting  of  the  Bards 326 

The  Voice  of  Spring 328 

Miscellaneous — 

Lines  written  in  a  Hermitage  on  the  Seashore 330 

Dirge  of  a  Child 331 

Invocation - 331 

To  the  Memory  of  Genrr.il  Sir  Edward  Pakenham 332 

To  the  Memory  of  Sir  Henry  Ellis,  who  full  in  the  Rattle  of  Waterloo m 

Guerilla  Song,  founded  on  the  story  related  of  the  Spanish  Patriot  Mina ?3j 

The  Aged  Indian 133 

Evening  amongst  the  Alps ;?4 

Dirge  of  the  Highland  Chief  in  "  Waverley  " 334 

The  Crusaders'  War-song 335 

The  Death  of  Clanronald 335 

To  the  Eye .    336 

The  Hero's  Death 337 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep 338 

Bring   Flowers •. jjS 

The  Crusader's  Return   330 

Tlie  Revellers 34  r 

The  Conqueror's  Steep 3P 

Our  L.idy'sWell Ul 

The  P.iiting  of  Summer <4I 

Thv.-  S.. i .;j;s  of  our  Fathers ^45 


CONTENTS. 


PACK. 
continued. 

The  World  in  the  Open  Air 346 

Kindred  Hearts 347 

The  Traveller  at  the  Source  of  the  Nile 34S 

Casablanca 348 

The  Dial  of  Flowers 349 

Our  Daily  Paths 350 

The  Cross  in  the  Wilderness 351 

Last  Rites 353 

The  Hebrew  Mother 3  54 

The  Wreck 356 

The  Trumpet 357 

Evening  Prayer  at  a  Girls*  School 357 

The  Hour  of  Death 358 

The  Lost  Pleiad 359 

The  Cliffs  of  Dover ^  . .  360 

The  Graves  of  Martyrs 361 

The  Hour  of  Prayer 361 

The  Voice  of  Home  to  the  Prodigal 362 

The  Wakening 362 

The  Breeze  from  Shore 363 

The  Dying  Improvisatore 364 

Music  of  Yesterday 366 

The  Forsaken  Hearth , 367 

The  Dreamer » 367 

The  Wings  of  the  Dove 368 

Psyche  borne  by  Zephyrs  to  the  Island  of  Pleasure 370 

The  Boon  of  Memory 370 

I  go,  Sweet  Friends 372 

Angel  Visits 372 

Ivy  Song ; 374 

To  one  of  the  Author's  Children  on  his  Birthday 374 

On  a  similar  occasion 375 

Christ  stilling  the  Tempest 375 

Epitaph  over  the  Grave  of  Two  Brothers,  a  Child  and  a  Youth 375 

Monumental  Inscription 376 

The  Sound  of  the  Sea 376 

The  Child  and  Dove 377 

A  Dirge 377 

Scene  in  a  Dalecarlian  Mine 378 

English  Soldier's  Song  of  Memory „ 379 

Haunted  Ground 380 

The  Child  of  the  Forests 381 

Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of 382 

The  Vaudois  Valleys 383 

Song  of  the  Spanish  Wanderer .-* 384 

The  Contadina 384 

Troubadour  Song 385 

The  Homes  of  England 385 

The  Sicilian  Captive    3S(> 

Ivan  the  Czar 3SS 

Carolan's  Prophecy 380 

The  Lady  of  the  Castle 392 

The  Mourner  for  the  Barmecides 394 

The  Spanish  Chape) 396 

.  The  Kaiser's  Feast -  397 

Tasso  and  his  Sister 398 

The  Release  of  Tasso .' , 399 

The  Necromancer < 403 

Ulla  ;  or,  The  Adjuration 404 

To  Wordsworth 406 

A  Monarch's  Deathbed •  407 

To  the  Memory  of  Heber 407 

The  Adopted  Child - 408 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 
Miscellaneous,  continued. 

Invocation 409 

Korner  and  his  Sister 410 

The  Death-Day  of  Korner 412 

An  Hour  of  Romance 412 

A  Voyager's  Dream  of  Land 413 

The  Effigies 415 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  in  Now  England 416 

The  Spirit's  Mysteries - 416 

The  Departed 418 

The  Palm-Tree 418 

The  Child's  Last  Sleep 419 

The  Sunbeam 420 

Breathings  of  Spring 421 

The  I  lluminated  City 422 

The  Spells  of  Home 423 

Roman  Girl's  Song 424 

The  Distant  Ship 425 

The  Birds  of  Passage 425 

The  Graves  of  a  Household 426 

Mozart's  Requiem 426 

The  Image  in  Lava 428 

Christmas  Carol 428 

A  Father  reading  the  Bible 429 

The  Meeting  of  the  Brothers 429 

The  Last  Wish 430 

Fairy  Favors 432 

The  Siege  of  Valencia.     A  Dramatic  Poem 434 

The  Vespers  of  Palermo.     A  Tragedy,  in  Five  Act* 4f| 


PREFATORY  NOTICE. 


SENTIMENT  without  passion,  and  suffering  without  abjection—* 
these,  along  with  a  deep  religious  sense,  and  with  the  gifts  of  a 
brilliant  mind  taking  the  poetical  direction  through  eager  sym- 
pathy and  some  genuine  vocation,  constitute  the  life  of  Mrs. 
Hemans.1  Whatever  may  be  the  deservings  of  the  poems  in  other 
respects,  they  do  not  fail  to  convey  to  the  reader  a  certain  im- 
pression of  beauty,  felt  to  be  inherent  as  much  in  the  personality 
of  the  -authoress  as  in  her  writings  :  they  show  as  being  the  out- 
come of  a  beautiful  life,  and  in  fact  they  are  so.  The  impression 
which  the  reader  will  thus  have  received  from  perusing  the  poems 
is  not  only  confirmed  but  intensified  when  he  knows  the  events  of 
the  writer's  life. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Browne,  born  in  Duke  Street,  Liverpool,  on 
the  25th  of  September,  1793,  was  daughter  of  a  merchant  of  con- 
siderable eminence,  a  native  of  Ireland,  belonging  to  a  branch  of 
the  Sligo  family.  Her  mother,  whose  maiden  name  was  Wagner, 
was  partly  Italian  and  partly  German  by  extraction,  her  father 
having  held  the  post  of  Consul  at -Liverpool  for  the  Austrian  and 
Tuscan  Governments.  The  surname  Wagner  was  in  reality  a  cor- 
ruption from  the  illustrious  Venetian  name  Veniero,  borne  by 
three  Doges,  and  by  the  Commander  of  the  fleet  of  the  Republic 
at  the  great  battle  of  Lepanto.  Felicia  was  the  fifth  child  in  a 
family  of  seven,  of  whom  one  died  in  infancy  ;  she  was  distin- 
guished, almost  from  her  cradle,  by  extreme  beauty  and  preco- 
cious talents.  "The  full  glow  of  that  radiant  beauty  which  was 
destined  to  fade  so  early  "  is  one  of  the  expressions  used  by  the 
poetess's  sister  in  describing  the  former  at  the  age  of  fifteen. 
This  reference  to  "  early  fading  "  appears  to  be  intended  to  apply 

1  The  Memoir  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  written  by  her  sister  Mrs.  Hughes,  and  prefixed  to  the 
edition  of  the  Poems  in  ^  vols.  published  by  Messrs.  Blackwood,  is  the  best  authority  for  the 
facts  of  the  poet's  life.  There  are  also  the  Memorials  by  Mr.  Chorley  in  2  vols.,  containing  a 
good  deal  of  Mrs.  Hemans's  correspondence  (reproduced  to  a  large  extent  by  Mrs.  HughesV 
and  mostly  bearing  on  her  literary  carerr  rather  than  the  circumstances  of  her  private  life.  The 
former  of  these  accounts  is  pleasantly  written,  in  a  tone  of  deep  affection,  and  admiration  as  well, 
at  which  the  reader  will  not  be  disposed  to  cavil. 


1 2  PkEFA  TOff  Y  MO  T1CE. 


rather  to  the  death  of  Mrs.  Hemans  when  only  in  her  forty-second 
year,  and  to  the  ravages  of  disease  in  the  few  years  preceding, 
than  to  any  loss  of  comeliness  in  mature  womanhood.  An  en- 
graved portrait  of  her  by  the  American  artist  William  E.  West, 
one  of  three  which  he  painted  in  1827,  shows  us  that  Mrs. 
Hemans,  at  the  age  of  thirty-four,  was  eminently  pleasing  and 
good-looking,  with  an  air  of  amiability  and  sprightly  gentleness, 
and  of  confiding  candor  which,  while  none  the  less  perfectly 
womanly,  might  almost  be  termed  childlike  in  its  limpid  depth. 
The  features  are  correct  and  harmonious  ;  the  eyes  full ;  and  the 
contour  amply  and  elegantly  rounded.  In  height  she  was  neither 
tall  nor  short.  A  sufficient  wealth  of  naturally  clustering  hair, 
golden  in  early  youth,  but  by  this  time  of  a  rich  auburn,  shades 
the  capacious  but  not  over-developed  forehead,  and  the  lightly- 
pencilled  eyebrows.  The  bust  and  form  have  the  fulness  of  a 
mature  period  of  life  ;  and  it  would  appear  that  Mrs.  Hemans  was 
somewhat  short-necked  and  high-shouldered,  partly  detracting 
from  delicacy  of  proportion,  and  ot  general  aspect  or  impression 
on  the  eye.  We  would  rather  judge  of  her  by  this  portrait  (which 
her  sister  pronounces  a  good  likeness)  than  by  another  engraved 
in  Mr.  Chorley's  Memorials.  This  latter  was  executed  in  Dublin 
in  1831  by  a  young  artist  named  Edward  Robinson.  It  makes 
Mrs.  Hemans  look  younger  than  in  the  earlier  portrait  by  West, 
and  may  on  that  ground  alone  be  surmised  unfaithful  ;  and, 
though  younger,  it  also  makes  her  heavier  and  less  refined. 

The  childhood  of  Felicia  Browne  was  probably  rendered  all 
the  happier  by  a  commercial  reverse  which  befell  her  father  be- 
fore she  was  seven  years  of  age.  The  family  hereupon  removed  to 
Wales,  and  for  nine  years  they  lived  at  Gwrych l  near  Abergele  in 
Denbighshire,  close  to  the  sea  and  amid  mountains.  This  was  the 
very  scene  for  the  poetically-minded  child  to  enjoy,  and  to  have 
her  powers  nurtured  by  :  a  great  love  of  nature,  and  in  particular 
an  affectionate  delight  in  Wales,  its  people  and  associations,  con- 
stantly traceable  in  her  writings,  followed  as  an  almost  necessary 
consequence.  Her  mother,  a  most  amiable  and  excellent  woman, 
fully  qualified  to  carry  on  her  daughter's  education,  devoted  the 
most  careful  attention  to  this  object,  and  was  repaid  by  an  un- 
swerving depth  and  constancy  of  love.  A  large  library  was  kept 
in  the  house,  and  Felicia  drew  heavily  upon  its  stores  :  a  pretty 
picture  is  presented  to  the  mind's  eye,  and  would  not  be  unworthy 

?  So  spelled  by  Mrs.  Hughes :.  "  Grwych  "  by  Mr.  Chorley. 


FREFA  TOR  Y  NO  TICE*  I J 

of  realization  by  art,  in  the  anecdote  that  it  was  her  habit,  at  the 
age  of  six,  to  read  Shakspeare  while  seated  in  the  branches  of  an 
apple-tree.  Along  with  great  rapidity  of  comprehension,  she  had 
a  memory  of  surprising  retentiveness,  and  would  repeat  whole 
pages  of  poetry  after  a  single  reading.  At  the  age  of  about  eleven 
she  passed  a  winter  in  London,  and  was  there  again  in  the  follow- 
ing year — never  afterwards. 

In  1808 — age  fourteen — Felicia  first  appears  as  an  authoress. 
She  published  a  volume  of  poems  which  got  abused  in  some  re- 
view :  this  was  the  only  time  that  really  harsh  criticism  befell  her. 
The  mishap  so  far  affected  the  impressionable  damsel  as  to  keep 
her  in  bed  some  days :  but  she  surmounted  it  pretty  soon  and  re- 
sumed writing.  In  the  same  year  she  wrote  a  poem  named  Eng- 
land and  Spain  ;  being  then  under  the  influence  of  military  enthu- 
siasm arising  from  the  events  of  the  Peninsular  War,  in  which  one 
of  her  brothers  was  serving :  another  of  them  was  also  in  (he  army, 
and  in  the  same  regiment,  the  23d  Royal  Welsh  Fusiliers.  The 
next  year  was  a  momentous  one  in  the  life  of  Felicia  Browne.  She 
met  Captain  Hemans,  of  the  4th  (or  King's  Own)  Regiment,  an 
officer  not  rich  in  purse,  but  having  advantages,  as  we  are  in-. 
formed,  both  of  person  and  education  :  he  professed  admiration  of 
the  bewitching  girl,  and  she  gave  him  her  love.  He  shortly  had 
to  return  to  Spain  ;  and  nearly  three  years  elapsed  before  they 
again  met.  Meanwhile,  in  1809,  the  Browne  family  removed  to 
Bronwylfa,  near  St.  Asaph  in  Flintshire  ;  and  in  1812,  for  the  sec- 
ond and  last  time,  appeared  a  volume  of  poetry  bearing  the  name 
of  Felicia  Dorothea  Browne,  The  Domestic  Affections,  and  Other 
Poems.  In  the  summer  of  1812  she  married  the  man  of  her 
choice. 

Biographers  have  not  permitted  us  to  know  distinctly  whether 
or  not  the  conjugal  life  of  Mrs.  Hemans  was  happy,  or  what  Cap- 
tain Hemans  might  possibly  have  found  to  say  on  the  subject :  at 
any  rate,  it  was  a  short  one,  practically  speaking.  The  wedded 
couple  resided  at  first  at  Daventry  in  Northamptonshire,  where 
the  Captain  .was  Adjutant  to  the  County  Militia  :  here  they  re- 
mained about  a  year,  and  here  was  born  their  son  Arthur,  the  first 
of  a  family  of  five,  all  of  whom  were  boys.  They  then  went  to  live 
with  Mrs.  Hemans's  own  family  at  Bronwylfa;  her  mother  was 
now  at  the  head  of  the  house,  as  her  father,  having  resumed  the 
mercantile  career,  had  gone  out  to  Quebec,  where  finally  he  died. 
In  1818  Captain  Hemans  resolved  to  go  to  the  south  of  Europe 


5  4  PREFA  TOR  V  NO  TICK. 


"  for  the  sake  of  his  health  " — a  very  inconvenient  motive,  or  a 
highly  convenient  one,  according  to  circumstances  :  he  had  suf- 
fered much  from  the  vicissitudes  of  a  military  life,  especially  dur- 
ing the  retreat  to  Corunna,  and  afterwards  through  fever  caught 
in  the  Walcheren  expedition.  He  departed  just  before  the  birth 
of  his  fifth  son  ;  went  to  Rome ;  and  there  settled  down.  The 
parting  proved  to  be  a  final  one.  It  might  have  been  fancied  that 
even  the  shattered  frame  of  a  young  officer  who  had  survived  Cor- 
unna and  Walcheren  would  suffice  for  the  effort  of  coming  to 
Wales,  England,  or  Ireland,  at  some  time  between  1818  and  1835, 
so  as  to  rebehold  a  wife  whom  he  had  left  in  the  bloom  of  youth 
and  loveliness,  and  whose  literary  fame,  for  many  years  succeed- 
ing his  departure,  lent  an  ever-brightening  lustre  to  the  name  of 
Hemans,  and  so  as  to  get  a  glimpse  of  his  five  promising  boys. 
But  this  was  not  to  be :  for  some  reason  or  other,  not  defined  to 
us,  even  the  charms  of  Bronwylfa,  with  a  wife,  five  sons,  and  a 
resident  mother-in-law,  did  not  relax  the  tenacious  grasp  which 
Italy  and  Rome  obtained  on  Captain  Hemans.  Or  again  it  might 
have  seemed  conceivable  that  not  only  Captain  Hemans  but  also 
his  wife,  the  author  of  Lays  of  Many  Lands,  sensitive  to  the  his- 
toric and  romantic  associations  of  such  a  country  as  Italy,  would 
find  it  compatible  with  her  liking  as  well  as  her  duties  to  pay  a 
visit  to  Rome,  or  possibly  to  make  it  her  permanent  dwelling-place. 
As  to  this,  it  may  perhaps  be  inferred,  in  a  general  way,  that  the 
family  affections  of  daughter  and  mother  were  more  dominant  and 
vivid  in  Mrs.  Hemans  than  conjugal  love  :  her  intense  feeling  of 
the  sacredness  of  home,  which  it  would  be  both  idle  and  perverse 
to  contest,  may  have  set  before  her,  as  more  binding  and  impera- 
tive, the  duties  of  service  to  her  own  mother,  and  of  guidance  to 
her  own  children,  than  the  more  equal,  passionate,  and  in  some 
sense  self-indulgent  relation  between  wife  and  husband.  However, 
abandoning  conjecture,  it  may  be  best  here  to  transcribe  the  reti- 
cent hints  on  the  subject  which  are  given  by  the  poetess's  sister, 
Mrs.  Hughes,  in  her  Memoir,  and  which  show  that  the  de  facfa 
separation  between  Captain  and  Mrs.  Hemans  depended  partly 
upon  general  considerations  of  family  obligation,  and  partly  upon 
special  circumstances  not  clearly  indicated,  but  apparently  reflect- 
ing more  or  less  on  the  marital  deportment  of  the  Captain.  "  It 
has  been  alleged,  and  with  perfect  truth,  that  the  literary  pursuits 
of  Mrs.  Hemans,  and  the  education  of  her  children,  made  it  more 
eligible  for  her  to  remain  under  the  maternal  roof  than  to-  accom- 


PRF.FA  TOR  Y  NO  TICE  r  5 


pany  her  husband  to  Italy.  It  is,  however,  unfortunately  but  too 
well  known  that  such  were  not  the  only  reasons  which  led  to  this 
divided  course.  To  dwell  on  this  subject  would  be  unnecessarily 
painful ;  yet  it  must  be  stated  that  nothing  like  a  permanent  sep- 
aration was  contemplated  at  the  time,  nor  did  it  ever  amount  to 
more  than  a  tacit  conventional  arrangement  which  offered  no  ob- 
stacle to  the  frequent  interchange  of  correspondence,  nor  to  a 
constant  reference  to  their  father  in  all  things  relating  to  the  dis- 
posal of  her  boys.  But  years  rolled  on — seventeen  years  of 
absence,  and  consequently  alienation  ;  and,  from  this  time  to  the 
hour  of  her  death,  Mrs.  Hemans  and  her  husband  never  met 
again.'' 

With  this  incident  of  the  lifelong  separation  between  her  husband 
and  herself,  anything  of  a  romantic  character  in  the  occurrences 
of  Mrs.  Hemans's  career  comes  to  a  close ;  although  the  coloring 
of  high-toned  romance  in  her  mind  and  writings  never  died  out, 
but  to  the  last  continued  to  permeate,  enliven,  and  beautify,  that 
other  element  and  staple  of  her  life,  its  sweet  and  earnest  domes- 
ticity. Now  we  have  only  to  contemplate  the  loving  daughter, 
glad,  as  long  as  fate  permitted,  to  escape  being  the  head  of  a 
household,  although  invested  with  the  matronly  dignity  proper  to 
the  motherhood  of  five  boys.  We  see  in  her  the  not  less  deeply 
affectionate,  tender,  and  vigilant  mother  ;  the  admired  and  popu- 
lar poetess,  distinguished  and  soon  burdened  by  applause  ;  shortly 
afterwards  the  cureless  invalid,  marked  out  for  an  early  death,  to- 
wards which  she  progresses  with  a  lingering  but  undeviating 
rapidity — calm  in  conscience,  bright  and  cheerful  in  mind,  full  of 
faith  and  hope  for  eternity,  and  of  the  gentlest  charities  of  life  for 
her  brief  residue  of  time. 

Tn  1818,  before  the  departure  of  her  husband,  Mrs.  Hemans 
had  published  a  volume  of  poetical  Translations  ;  and  about  the 
3ame  time  she  wrote  The  Restoration  of  the  Works  of  Art  to  Italy, 
and  Modern  Greece,  and  other  poems  which  were  afterwards  in- 
cluded in  the  series  named  Talcs  and  Historic  Scenes.  In  1820 
she  brought  out  The  Sceptic:  a  mild  performance  which  some  stiil 
milder-minded  disbeliever  found  of  convincing  efficacy,' assuring 
Mrs.  Hemans,  in  a  personal  interview  not  long  before  her  death, 
that  it  had  wrought  his  conversion  to  the  Christian  religion.  In 
the  same  year  she  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Rev.  Reginald 
(afterwards  Bishop)  Heber,  then  Rector  of  Hodnet — the  first  emi- 
nent literary  personage  whom  she  knew  well.  He  encouraged  her 


PREFA  TOR  y  NO  TICE. 


in  the  composition  of  another  poem  destined  to  extirpate  religious 
error,  entitled  Superstition  and  Revelation  :  it  had  been  begun  some 
while  before  this,  and  was  never  distinctly  abandoned,  but  remained 
uncompleted.  Towards  this  time  also  Mrs.  Hemans  wrote  a  set  of 
papers  in  the  Edinburgh  Monthly  Magazine  on  Foreign  Literature  ; 
almost  the  only  prose  that  she  ever  published,  and  serving  chiefly 
as  a  vehicle  for  poetic  translations.  She  obtained  two  literary 
prizes  for  poems,  and  her  ambition  was  equal  to  the  composition 
of  a  five-act  tragedy  intended  for  stage  representation — The  Ves- 
pers of  Palermo.  This  was  a  work  that  occupied  some  time.  At 
last,  after  she  had  received  £210  for  the  copyright  of  the  tragedy, 
it  was  produced  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  on  the  1 2th  of  Decem- 
ber, 1823.  No  doubt  the  authoress's  own  hopes  were  not  alto- 
gether low  as  to  the  success  of  the  piece,  and  her  friends  were  in 
high  expectancy.  Young  and  Charles  Kemble  took  the  principal 
male  characters:  Miss  Kelly  appeared  as  Constance.  The  acting 
of  this  lady  is  said,  fairly  or  unfairly,  to  have  been  disastrous  to 
the  piece:  it  proved  "all  but  a  failure,"  and  was  withdrawn  after 
the  opening  night,  and  never  reproduced  in  London.  Not  long 
afterwards,  however,  the  tragedy  was  acted  in  Edinburgh,  and  with 
a  considerable  measure  of  success.  A  dispassionate  reader  of  the 
present  day — if  indeed  there  exists  a  reader  of  The  Vespers  of  l\i- 
lermo — will  probably  opine  that  the  London  audience  showed  at 
least  as  much  discrimination  (apart  from  any  question  as  to  de- 
merit in  Miss  Kelly)  as  that  in  Edinburgh.  Mrs.  Hemans's  talent 
was  not  of  the  dramatic  kind.  Perhaps  there  never  yet  was  a  good 
five-act  stage  tragedy  written  by  a  woman ;  and  certainly  the 
peculiar  tone  and  tint  of  Mrs.  Hemans's  faculty  were  not  such  as 
to  supply  the  deficiency  which  she,  merely  as  a  woman,  was  almost 
certain  to  evince.  Even  as  a  narrative  poet,  not  to  speak  of  the 
drama,  she  shows  to  no  sort  of  advantage :  her  personages  not 
having  anything  of  a  full-bodied  character,  but  wavering  between 
the  romantically  criminal  and  the  longwindedly  virtuous — poor 
supposititious  creatures,  inflated  and  diluted.  Something  better 
may  nevertheless  be  said  for  the  second  of  her  tragedies,  The 
Siege  of  Valencia,  published  in  1823  along  with  Bclshazzar's  Feasi 
and  some  other  poems.  This  play  appears  to  have  been  written 
without  any  view  to  the  stage :  a  condition  of  writing  which  acts 
detrimentally  upon  a  drama  composed  by  a  born  dramatist,  but; 
which  may  rather  have  the  opposite  effect  upon  one  coming  from 
a  different  sort  of  author.  In  The  Siege  of  Valencia  the  situation 


PREFA  TOR  Y  NO  TICE.  »  7 


is  in  a  high  degree  tragical — even  terrible  or  harrowing  :  and 
there  is  this  advantage, — no  small  one  in  the  case  of  a  writer  such 
as  Mrs.  Hernans — that,  while  the  framework  is  historical,  and  the 
crisis  and  passions  of  a  genuinely  heroic  type,  the  immediate  in- 
terest is  personal  or  domestic.  Mrs.  Hemans  may  be  credited 
with  a  good  and  unhacknied  choice  of  subject  in  this  drama,  and 
with  a  well-concerted  adaptation  of  it  to  her  own  more  special 
powers:  the  writing  is  fairly  sustained  throughout,  and  there  are 
passages  both  vigorous  and  moving.  As  the  reader  approaches 
the  denouement,  and  finds  the  authoress  dealing  death  with  an  un- 
sparing hand  to  the  heroically  patriotic  Gonzalez  and  all  his  off- 
spring, he  may  perhaps  at  first  feel  a  little  ruffled  at  noting  that 
the  only  member  of  the  family  who  has  been  found  wanting 
in  the  fiery  trial — wanting  through  an  excess  of  maternal  love — is 
also  the  only  one  saved  alive  :  but  in  this  also  the  authoress  may 
be  pronounced  in  the  right.  Reunion  with  her  beloved  ones  in 
death  would  in  fact  have  been  mercy  to  Elmina,  and  would  have 
left  her  undistinguished  from  the  others,  and  untouched  by  any 
retribution  :  survival,  mourning,  and  self-discipline,  are  the  only 
chastisement  in  which  a  poetic  justice,  in  its  higher  conception, 
could  be  expressed. — Besides  the  two  dramas  of  The  Vespers  of 
Palermo  and  The  Siege  of  Valencia,  Mrs.  Hemans  began  likewise 
two  others — De  Chatillon,  or  the  Crusaders,  and  Sebastian  of  Portu- 
gal:  neither  of  these  was  finished. 

Soon  before  the  production  of  The  Vespers  of  Palermo  on  the 
stage,  she  had  taken  up  with  great  zest  the  study  of  the  German 
language  ;  and  her  Lays  of  Many  r.ands,  published  in  1826,  were 
to  a  considerable  extent  suggested  by  Herder's  work,  Stimmcn  der 
Volker  in  Licder.  The  same  volume  contained  her  poem  of  The 
Forest  Sanctuary,  which  had  occupied  her  in  the  latter  part  of 
1824  and  commencement  of  1825  :  this  she  was  disposed  to 
regard  as  her  finest  work.  It  is  the  most  important  of  her  narra- 
tive or  semi-narrative  poems,  and,  as  compared  with  the  others  of 
.hat  class,  may  reasonably  claim  a  preference,  without  our  com- 
mitting ourselves  to  any  very  high  eulogium  upon  it.  The 
Records  of  Woman  followed  in  1828,  being  the  first  of  the  author- 
ess's works  that  Messrs.  Blackwood  published  :  into  this  series 
she  put  more  of  her  personal  feeling  than  into  any  of  the  others. 
In  the  summer  of  1830  appeared  the  Songs  of  the  Affections,  being 
the  last  of  her  publications  prior  to  her  departure  for  Ireland. 

Meanwhile  the  course  of  her  private  life  had  been  marked 


1 8  PREFA  TOR  Y  NO  TTCE. 

only  by  such  variations  as  removal  of  residence,  and  by  one  deep 
and  irreparable  affliction  in  the  death  of  her  beloved  mother  on 
the  nth  of  January,  1827,  followed  soon  afterwards  by  the  failure 
of  her  own  health.  The  first  removal,  in  the  spring  of  1825,  had 
been  from  Bronwylfa  to  Phyllon,  a  house  distant  from  the 
former  only  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  :  here  she  settled  along  with 
her  mother,  sister,  and  four  boys — the  eldest  son  being  then  at  a 
school  at  Bangor.  For  a  time  also  her  second  brother,  Major 
Browne,  afterwards  Commissioner  of  Police  in  Dublin,  and  his 
wife,  resided  in  the  same  house,  on  their  return  from  Canada. 
Rhyllon,  though  with  attractive  surroundings,  was  a  much  less 
picturesque  house  than  Bronwylfa ;  but  this  brief  period  of  Mrs 
Hemans's  life  proved  to  be  probably  the  happiest  that  she  had 
passed  since  childhood.  Besides  many  sources  of  tranquil  do. 
mestic  satisfaction,  and  for  a  while  a  somewhat  firmer  condition 
of  her  own  health,  she  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  considerable 
reputation  not  now  confined  to  her  native  country,  for  the  fame  of 
her  poems  had  spread  to  America,  and  flourished  there  with  ex- 
traordinary vigor.  She  was  at  one  time  invited  to  emigrate  to 
Boston,  and  there  conduct  a  periodical  under  an  arrangement 
which  would  have  secured  her  an  income.  Her  literary  corres- 
pondence became  very  large  ;  and  gradually  the  urgencies  of 
editors  of  annuals,  owners  of  albums,  and  other  such  predacious 
assailants  of  leisure  and  patience,  besieged  and  waylaid  her  to  a 
burdensome  and  harassing  extent.  In  the  summer  of  1828  she 
paid  a  visit  to  some  friends  at  Wavertree  Lodge,  near  Liverpool. 
Her  health  was  now  exceedingly  frail,  with  palpitation  of  the 
heart,  and  inflammatory  and  other  distressing  symptoms,  fre- 
quently aggravated  by  her  exceeding  carelessness  in  all  matters 
affecting  herself.  Her  friends  induced  her  to  take  medical  advice, 
and  she  was  directed  to  assume  a  reclining  posture  as  often  as 
practicable.  Another  consequence  of  this  visit  was  her  resolution 
to  move  to  the  village  of  Wavertree,  chiefly  with  a  view  to  the 
better  education  of  her  three  younger  boys  :  the  two  others,  at 
the  same  time  that  their  mother  quitted  Wales  in  the  autumn, 
went  away  to  Rome,  to  the  care  of  their  father.  Mrs.  Hemans's 
sister  had  married,  her  brother  was  appointed  to  a  post  in  Ireland, 
and  the  cherished  Welsh  home  was  thus  irremediably  broken  up. 
The  residence  at  Wavertree,  however,  turned  out  unsatisfactory, 
Mrs.  Hemans  did  not  find  it  healthy  for  herself,  nor  its  educational 
advantages  equal  (.o  her  expectations.  She  had  some  friends  i» 


PREFA  TORY  .\'0  TfCE.  I 9 


Liverpool  whom  she  liked,  more  especially  the  Chorley  family  •. 
but  for  the  most  part  was  oppressed  by  the  importunities  of  un- 
discerning  and  uncongenial  neighbors,  upon  whom,  moreover, 
she  often  failed  even  to  produce  a  favorable  impression.  She 
was  regarded  as  odd — "wore  a  veil  on  her  head,  like  no  one 
else  "  (as  is  shown  indeed  in  Mr.  West's  portrait  of  her) :  and 
•  she,  for  her  part,  could  hardly  be  induced  to  go  into  any  general 
society,  and  would  fain  have  got  a  friend  "  to  procure  her  a 
dragon  to  be  kept  in  her  court-yard,"  as  a  protection  against 
intruders.  Her  house  was  itself  very  small,  and  on  her  arrival 
comfortless :  but  she  managed  to  make  it  comparatively  elegant. 
She  now  conceived  a  great  passion  for  music,  and,  in  the  winter 
of  1830  and  ensuing  spring,  applied  herself  to  the  study  of  the  art 
under  Zeugheer  Herrmann,  receiving  also  some  assistance  from 
a  well-known  amateur,  Mr.  Lodge.  She  so  far  cultivated  her 
faculty  in  music  as  to  be  able  to  invent  airs  for  some  of  her  own 
lyrics.  Playing  on  the  harp  and  the  pianoforte  had  been  among 
her  earlier  accomplishments  :  and  her  voice  was  naturally  good, 
but  failed  in  youth  owing  to  the  weakness  of  her  chest. 

The  residence  at  Wavertree  was  varied  by  excursions  to  Scot- 
land and  to  the  Lake  country.  In  July,  1829,  she  paid  a  visit  to 
Mr.  Hamilton,  the  author  of  Cyril  Thornton,  at  Chiefswood  near 
Abbotsford,  and  saw  a  great  deal  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Two  of 
his  kindly  compliments  to  Mrs.  Hemans  have  been  preserved  in 
her  sister's  record.  "  I  should  say  you  had  too  many  gifts,  Mrs. 
Hemans  ;  were  they  not  all  made  to  give  pleasure  to  those 
around  you  :  "  and  afterwards  at  leave-taking,  "  There  are  some 
whom  we  meet,  and  should  like  ever  after  to  claim  as  kith  and 
kin  ;  and  you  are  one  of  those."  The  Scotch  trip  included  visits 
to  Yarrow,  Abbotsford,  and  Edinburgh,  and  sitting  for  a  bust  to 
Mr.  Angus  Fletcher.  The  excursion  to  the  Lakes  of  Westmore- 
land took  place  in  the  following  year,  1830  :  the  poetess  went  to 
Wordsworth's  house,  Rydal  Mount,  with  her  son  Charles ;  and, 
on  afterwards  moving  to  a  neighboring  cottage  named  Dove's  Nest, 
overlooking  Winandermere,  was  joined  by  hejr  two  other  boys 
from  Wavertree.  Mrs.  Hemans's  letters  show  how  much  she 
liked  Wordsworth,  both  poetically  and  personally  :  she  found  him 
more  impulsive  than  she  had  expected,  and  greatly  enjoyed  his 
fine  reading,  and  the  frequent  touches  of  poetry  in  his  talk.  Nor 
was  her  admiration  unresponded  to,  as  proved  by  the  lines  which 
Wordsworth  devoted  to  her  memorv  but  a  few  years  afterwards— - 


*0  PREFATORY  NOTICE. 


u  Mourn  rather  for  that  holy  spirit 

Sweet  as  the  spring,  as  ocean  deep ; 
For  her  who  ere  her  summer  faded 

Has  sunk  into  a  breathless  sleep." 

She  left  Dove's  Nest  towards  the  middle  of  August,  and  revisited 
Scotland,  and  then  re-entered  Wales  by  way  of  Dublin  and  Holy- 
head. 

.  As  the  experiment  of  Wavertree  had  proved  disappointing, 
and  as  her  brother  Major  Browne  was  now  settled  in  Ireland, 
Mrs.  Hemans  determined  to  take  up  her  residence  in  Dublin  from 
the  following  spring.  In  the  late  autumn  of  1830  therefore  she 
saw  her  last  of  Bronwylfa,  and  towards  the  close  of  April,  1831, 
she  quitted  Wavertree  and  England,  never  (as  it  was  fated )  to 
return.  She  passed  a  few  weeks  in  Dublin  ;  then  stayed  at  her 
brother's  house,  the  Hermitage,  near  Kilkenny  ;  and  in  the  early 
autumn  was  finally  domiciled  in  the  Irish  capital.  At  first  she 
dwelt  iu  Upper  Pembroke  Street ;  afterwards  in  No.  36  Stephen's 
Green  ;  and  thirdly  at  a  house  which  proved  more  comfortable, 
and  in  which  her  life  came  to  a  close,  20  Dawson  Street.  In 
Dublin,  as  before  at  Wavertree,  Mrs.  Hemans  lived  retired  from 
society,  but  in  familiar  intercourse  with  a  few  sterling  friends, 
among  whom  were  Sir  William  Rowan  Hamilton,  Archbishop  and 
Mrs.  Whately,  and  the  Rev.  Blanco  White.  Her  health  was  in  a 
very  shattered  state,  the  palpitation  of  the  heart  continuing,  and 
being  attended  by  frequent  fainting-fits.  Every  now  and  then, 
however,  she  rallied,  and  it  was  still  possible  for  her  friends  to 
flatter  their  hearts  with  hope ;  and  the  gentle  sweetness  and  even 
playfulness  of  her  temper,  mingled  with  tender  sentiment  and 
ever-deepening  religious  impressions  never  failed  her.  She  now 
had  to  pass  a  great  part  of  her  time  lying  on  a  sofa. 

After  her  settlement  in  Ireland  Mrs.  Hemans  published  the 
following  volumes  of  poetry — her  prevailing  tendency  being  at 
this  period  towards  themes  of  a  religious  character.  Early  in 
1834,  the  Hymns  for  Childhood  were  first  issued  from  the  home 
press,  in  Dublin, — having  previously,  however,  as  far  back  as 
1824,  appeared  in  an  American  edition.  The  National  Lyrics 
were  collected,  and  produced  by  the  same  Dublin  publishers, 
almost  simultaneously  with  the  Hymns  for  Childhood ;  and  were 
succeeded,  at  no  long  interval,  by  the  Scenes  and  Hymns  of  Life, 
which  volume  obtained  much  applause.  This  was  the  last  pub- 
lication during  her  lifetime.  She  afterwards  wrote  Despondency 


PREFATORY  NOTICE.  2\ 

and  Aspiration,  and  dictated  the  series  of  sonnets  named  Thoughts 
during  Sickness :  the  last  composition  of  all  was  the  Sabbath  Son- 
net, produced  on  the  26th  of  April,  only  twenty  days  prior  to  her 
death. 

The  other  events  of  the  last  two  years  of  Mrs.  Hemans's  life 
may  be  very  briefly  summarized:  fatal  illness,  and  the  attentions 
of  relatives  and  friends,  are  nearly  all  that  the  record  includes. 
Not  only  her  brother  and  his  wife,  but  also  her  sister  Mrs. 
Hughes,  with  the  husband  of  the  latter,  were  with  her  with  more 
or  less  continuity.  In  May,  1833,  her  son  Claude  went  to  America, 
to  engage  in  commercial  life  ;  another  son,  Willoughby,  was  em- 
ployed on  the  Ordnance  Survey  in  the  north  of  Ireland  :  Charles, 
and  during  his  holidays  Henry,  tended  her  affectionately.  The 
latter,  shortly  before  his  mother's  death,  was  unexpectedly  ap- 
pointed to  a  clerkship  in  the  Admiralty  by  Sir  Robert  Peel,  who 
added  "  a  most  munificent  donation."  In  July,  1834,  Mrs. 
Hemans  caught  a  fever  :  she  went  to  the  county  of  Wicklow  for 
the  sake  of  her  health,  but  here  another  illness,  scarlet  fever, 
assailed  her.  Returning  to  Dublin,  and  being  ordered  to  pass  as 
much  time  as  possible  in  the  open  air,  she  caught  a  cold,  through 
having  sat  out  too  long  reading  in  the  gardens  of  the  Dublin 
Society,  where  an  autumnal  fog  overtook  her :  the  cold  was  fol- 
lowed by  ague,  and  this,  with  a  hectic  fever  which  supervened, 
may  be  regarded  as  the  final  stage  in  her  disease,  now  mainly  of 
a  dropsical  character.  At  the  beginning  of  March,  1835,  after 
spending  some  while  at  Redesdale,  the  seat  of  her  attached  friends 
the  Whatelys,  she  returned  to  Dublin,  having  almost  lost  the  use 
of  her  limbs  ;  and  on  the  i6th  of  May,  without  a  sigh  or  move- 
ment, she  ceased  to  live.  She  lies  buried  in  St.  Anne's  Church, 
Dublin. 

Mrs.  Hemans,  while  sprightly,  versatile,  and  conversible,  was 
not  the  less  of  a  very  retiring  disposition,  shrinking  from  self- 
display,  and  the  commonplaces  of  a  public  reputation.  Her  char- 
acter was  extremely  guileless.  Notwithstanding  her  exceeding 
sensitiveness — which  extended  not  only  to  the  affections  and 
interests  of  life,  but  to  such  outer  matters  as  the  sound  of  the 
wind  at  night,  the  melancholy  of  the  sea-shore,  and  in  especial 
(though  there  was  no  reason  for  this  in  any  personal  occurrences) 
to  the  sadness  of  burials  at  sea — she  was  yet  very  free  from  mere 
ordinary  nervous  alarms.  "  My  spirits,"  she  once  wrote,  "  are  as 
variable  as  the  lights  and  shadows  now  flitting  with  the  winds  over 


*  *  PKEFA  TOR  Y  NO  TICK. 


the  high  grass,  and  sometimes  the  tears  gush  into  my  eyes  when 
I  can  scarcely  define  the  cause.  I  put  myself  in  mind  of  an  Irish 
melody  sometimes,  with  its  quick  and  wild  transitions  from  sad- 
ness to  gayety."  Her  conversation  was  various  and  brilliant,  with 
a  total  freedom  from  literary  pretence.  She  had  a  strong  percep- 
tion of  the  ludicrous,  but  abstained  from  sarcasm  or  ill-nature, 
more  especially  as  weapons  against  any  u  no  had  injured  or  neg- 
lected her  ;  and  personal  or  invidious  literary  gossip  was  her 
aversion.  She  would  not  permit  herself  to  be  vexed  at  small 
things  :  but  was  wont  to  quote  the  saying  of  Madame  1'Espinasse 
(applying  it  no  doubt  chiefly  to  the  severance  of  her  matrimonial 
ties)  "  Un  grand  chagrin  tue  tout  le  reste."  She  had  a  keen 
dislike  to  any  sort  of  coarseness  in  conversation  or  in  books,  and 
would  often  tear  out  peccant  pages  from  volumes  in  her  posses- 
sion. Her  accomplishments  were  considerable,  and  not  merely 
superficial.  She  knew  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  Portuguese,  and 
in  mature  life  German,  and  was  not  unacquainted  with  Latin. 
She  had  some  taste  and  facility  not  only  in  music  (as  already 
referred  to)  but  likewise  in  drawing ;  and  some  of  her  sketches  of 
localities  have  served  for  vignettes  in  the  copyright  edition  of  her 
complete  works.1  Her  poetry  was  often  written  with  a  readiness 
approaching  improvisation  :  this  she  felt  as  .in  some  degree  a 
blemish,  and  towards  the  close  of  her  life  she  regretted  having 
often  had  to  write  in  a  haphazard  way,  so  as  to  supply  means  for 
the  education  of  her  sons.  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Madame  de  Stael, 
were  among  the  writers  she  was  in  the  habit  of  quoting.  Jealousy 
of  contemporary  female  writers,  prominent  in  the  public  eye,  was 
unknown  to  her  gentle  and  true-hearted  nature  :  Miss  Jewsbury 
(afterwards  Mrs.  Fletcher)  was  among  her  intimates,  and  she 
indulged  herself  in  friendly  correspondence  with  Miss  Baillie, 
Miss  Mitford,  Mrs.  Howitt,  and  others.  The  first-named  of  these 
ladies,  Mrs.  Fletcher  (whose  death  preceded  that  of  her  friend  by 
about  a  year),  has,  in  her  book  named  The  Three  Histories,  de- 
scribed Mrs.  Hemans  under  the  name  of  Egeria  ;  and  as  the 
faithfulness  of  the  portrait,  allowing  for  some  degree  of  ideali 
zation,  is  attested  by  Mrs.  Hughes,  I  am  induced  to  repeat  it 
here  : — "  Egeria  was  totally  different  from  any  other  woman  I  had 
ever  seen,  either  in  Italy  or  England.  She  did  not  dazzle,  she 

1  In  the  present  edition  some  few  poems  have  had  to  be  omitted,  as  still  copyright ;  and 
others,  (or  the  purpose  of  bringing  the  material  into  one  moderate-sized  volume.  These  ar« 
rbiefiy  early  poems,  or  else  dramatic  works. 


PREFA  TOR  Y  NO  TICE.  2J 


subdued  me.  Other  women  might  be  more  commanding,  more 
versatile,  more  acute :  'but  I  never  saw  one  so  exquisitely  femi- 
nine. Her  birth,  her  education,  but  above  all  the  genius  with 
which  she  was  gifted,  combined  to  inspire  a  passion  for  the 
ethereal,  the  tender,  the  imaginative,  the  heroic — in  one  word 
the  beautiful.  It  was  in  her  a  faculty  divine,  and  yet  of  daily 
life  ;  it  touched  all  things,  but,  like  a  sunbeam,  touched  them 
with  a  '  golden  finger.'  Anything  abstract  or  scientific  was 
unintelligible  and  distasteful  to  her.  Her  knowledge  was  exten- 
sive and  various  ;  but,  true  to  the  first  principle  of  her  nature,  it 
was  poetry  that  she  sought  in  history,  scenery,  character,  and 
religious  belief — poetry  that  guided  all  her  studies,  governed  all 
her  thoughts,  colored  all  her  conversation.  Her  nature  was  at 
once  simple  and  profound :  there  was  no  room  in  her  mind  for 
philosophy,  nor  in  her  heart  for  ambition  ;  the  one  was  filled  by 
imagination,  the  other  engrossed  by  tenderness.  She  had  a  pas- 
sive temper,  but  decided  tastes  ;  any  one  might  influence,  but  very 
few  impressed  her.  Her  strength  and  her  weakness  alike  lay  in 
her  affections.  These  would  sometimes  make  her  weep  at  a  word, 
— at  others,  imbue  her  with  courage  ;  so  that  she  was  alternately 
a  '  falcon-hearted  dove,'  and  '  a  reed  shaken  with  the  wind.'  Her 
voice  was  a  sad  sweet  melody,  and  her  spirits  reminded  me  of  an 
old  poet's  description  of  the  orange  tree,  with  its 

'  Golden  lamps  hid  in  a  night  of  green,' 

or  of  those  Spanish  gardens  where  the  pomegranate  grows  beside 
the  cypress.  Her  gladness  was  like  a  burst  of  sunlight;  and,  if 
in  her  depression  she  resembled  night,  it  was  night  bearing  her 
stars.  I  might  describe  and  describe  forever,  but  I  should  never 
succeed  in  portraying  Egeria.  She  was  a  Muse,  a  Grace,  a  vari- 
able child,  a  dependent  woman,  the  Italy  of  human  beings." 

In  Mrs.  Hemans's  poetry  there  is  (as  already  observed)  a 
large  measure  of  beauty,  and,  along  with  this,  very  considerable 
skill.  Aptitude  and  delicacy  in  versification,  and  a  harmonious 
balance  in  the  treatment  of  the  subject,  are  very  generally  appar- 
ent :  if  we  accept  the  key-note  as  right,  we  may  with  little  mis- 
giving acquiesce  in  what  follows  on  to  the  close.  Her  skill,  how- 
ever, hardly  rises  into  the  loftier  region  of  art :  there  is  a  gift,  and 
culture  added  to  the  gift,  but  not  a  great  native  faculty  working 
in  splendid  independence,  or  yet  more  splendid  self-discipline. 


«4  PREFA  TOR  Y  NO  TICE. 


Her  sources  of  inspiration  being  genuine,  and  the  tone  of  hei 
mind  feminine  in  an  intense  degree,  the  product  has  no  lack 
of  sincerity;  and- yet  it  leaves  a  certain  artificial  impression, 
rather  perhaps  through  a  cloying  flow  of  "  right-minded  "  percep- 
tions of  moral  and  material  beauty  than  through  any  other  defect. 
"  Balmy  "  it  may  be :  but  the  atmosphere  of  her  verse  is  by  no 
means  bracing.  One  might  sum  up  the  weak  points  in  Mrs. 
Hemans's  poetry  by  saying  that  it  is  not  only  "  feminine  "  poetry 
(which  under  the  circumstances  can  be  no  imputation,  rather  an 
encomium)  but  also  "female"  poetry:  besides  exhibiting  the 
fineness  and  charm  of  womanhood,  it  has  the  monotone  of  mere 
sex.  Mrs.  Hemans  has  that  love  of  good  and  horror  of  evil 
which  characterize  a  scrupulous  female  mind  ;  and  which  we  may 
most  rightly  praise  without  concluding  that  they  favor  poetical 
robustness,  or  even  perfection  in  literary  form.  She  is  a  leader 
in  that  very  modern  phalanx  of  poets  who  persistently  co-ordinare 
the  impulse  of  sentiment  with  the  guiding  power  of  morals  or 
religion.  Everything  must  convey  its  "  lesson,"  and  is  indeed  set 
forth  for  the  sake  of  its  lesson :  but  must  at  the  same  time  have 
the  emotional  gush  of  a  spontaneous  sentiment.  The  poet  must 
not  write  because  he  has  something  of  his  own  to  say,  but  because 
he  has  something  right  to  feel  and  say.  Lamartine  was  a  prophet 
in  this  line.  After  allowing  all  proper  deductions,  however,  it 
may  be  gratefully  acknowledged  that  Mrs.  Hemans  takes  a  very 
honorable  rank  among  poetesses ;  and  that  there  is  in  her  writ- 
ings much  which  both  appeals,  and  deserves  to  appeal,  to  many 
gentle,  sweet,  pious,  and  refined  souls,  in  virtue  of  its  thorough 
possession  of  the  same  excellent  gifts.  According  to  the  spiritual 
or  emotional  condition  of  her  readers,  it  would  be  found  that  a 
poem  by  this  authoress  which  to  one  reader  would  be  graceful 
and  tender  would  to  another  be  touching,  and  to  a  third  poign- 
antly pathetic.  The  first  we  can  suppose  to  be  a  man,  and  the 
third  a  woman  ;  or  the  first  a  critic,  the  second  a  "  poetical 
reader,"  and  the  third  a  sensitive  nature,  attuned  to  sympathy  by 
suffering. 


W.    M.  ROSSETTL 


MRS.  REMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


'  Ihr  Platze  aller  memer  stillen  freuden, 
Euch  lass"  ich  hinter  mir  auf  immerdar! 

So  ist  des  geistes  ruf  an  mich  ergangen, 
Mich  treibt  nicht  cities,  irdisches  verlangen." 

Die  Jungfrau  van  Orleans, 

'  Long  time  against  oppression  have  1  fought, 
And  for-the  native  liberty  of  faith 
Have  bled  and  suffered  bonds." 

Remorse;  a  Tragedy. 


(The  following  poem  is  intended  to  describe  the  mental  conflicts,  as  well  as  outward  sufferings, 
of  a  Spaniard,  who,  flying  from  the  religious  persecutions  of  his  own  country,  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  takes  refuge,  with  his  child,  in  a  North  American  forest.  The  story  is  supposed  ta 
be  related  by  himself,  amidst  the  wilderness  which  has  afforded  him  an  asylum.] 


THE  voices  of  my  home  ! — I  hear  them  still ! 
They  have  been  with  me  through  the  dreamy  night — 
The  blessed  household  voices,  wont  to  fill 
My  heart's  clear  depths  with  unalloyed  delight !  . 
I  hear  them  still,  unchanged  :  though  some  from  earth 
Are  music  parted,  and  the  tones  of  mirth — 
Wild,  silvery  tones,  that  rang  through  days  more  bright- 
Have  died  in  others ;  yet  to  me  they  come 
Singing  of  boyhood  back — the  voices  of  my  home  1 

II. 

They  call  me  through  this  hush  of  woods  reposing 
In  the  gray  stillness  of  the  summer  morn  ; 
They  wander  by  when  heavy  flowers  are  closing, 
And  thoughts  grow  deep,  and  winds  and  stars  are  born. 
Even  as  a  fount's  remembere.d  gush  ings  burst 
On  the  parched  traveller  in  his  hour  of  thirst, 
E'en  thus  they  haunt  me  with  sweet  sounds,  till  worn 
Ky  quenchless  longings,  to  my  soul  I  say — 
Oh !  for  the  dove's  swift  wings,  that  I  might  flee  away. 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


And  find  mine  ark  !     Yet  whither  ?    I  must  bear 

A  yearning  heart  within  me  to  the  grave. 

I  am  of  those  o'er  whom  a  breath  of  air — 

Just  darkening  in  its  course  the  lake's  bright  wave, 

And  sighing  through  the  feathery  canes — hath  power 

To  call  up  shadows,  in  the  silent  hour, 
VT-Yom  the  dim  past,  as  from  a  wizard's  cave  ! 

So  must  it  be  !     These  skies  above  me'spread : 
Are  they  my  own  soft  skies  ? — Ye  rest  not  here,  my  dead ! 


Ye  far  amidst  the  southern  flowers  lie  sleeping, 
Your  graves  all  smiling  in  the  sunshine  clear; 
Save  one  !  a  blue,  lone,  distant  main  is  sweeping 
High  o'er  one  gentle  head.     Ye  rest  not  here ! — 
'Tis  not  the  olive,  with  a  whisper  swaying, 
Not  thy  low  ripplings,  glassy  water,  playing 
Through  my  own  chestnut  groves  which  fill  mine  ear  ; 
But  the  faint  echoes  in  my  breast  that  dwell, 
V  And  for  their  birthplace  moan,  as  moans  the  ocean-shell. 


Peace  ! — I  will  dash  these  fond  regrets  to  earth, 
>/Even  as  an  eagle  shakes  the  cumbering  rain 

From  his  strong  pinion.     Thou  that  gav'st  me  birth 

And  lineage,  and  once  home, — my  native  Spain  ! 

My  own  bright  land — my  father's  land — my  child's  1 

What  hath  thy  son  brought  from  thee  to  the  wilds  ? 

He  hath  brought  marks  of  torture  and  the  chain — 

Traces  of  things  which  pass  not  as  a  breeze ; 
A  blighted  name,  dark  thoughts,  wrath,  woe^thy  gifts  are  thesf 


A  blighted  name  !     I  hear  the  winds  of  morn — 
Their  sounds  are  not  of  this !     I  hear  the  shiver 
Of  the  green  reeds,  and  all  the  rustlings,  borne 
From  the  high  forest,  when  the  light  leaves  quiver : 
Their  sounds  are  not  of  this! — the  cedars,  waving, 
Lend  it  no  tone  :  His  wide  savannas  laving, 
It  is  not  murmured  by  the  joyous  river ! 
What  part  hath  mortal  name,  where  God  alone 
Speaks  to  the  mighty  waste,  and  through  its  heart  is  known  ? 

VII. 

I?  it  not  much  that  I  may  worship  Him 
With  naught  my  spirit's  breathings  to  control, 
And  feel  His  presence  in  the  vast  and  dim, 
And  whispery  woods,  where  dying  thunders  roll 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


From  the  far  cataracts  ?     Shall  I  not  rejoice 
That  I  have  learned  z.t  last  to  know  His  voice 
From  man's  ?     I  will  rejoice ! — my  soaring  soul 
Now  hath  redeemed  her  birthright  of  the  clay, 
And  won,  through  clouds,  to  Him  her  own  unfettered  way! 

VIII. 

And  thou,  my  boy !  that  silent  at  my  knee 
Dost  lift  to  mine  thy  soft,  dark,  earnest  eyes, 
Filled  with  the  love  of  childhood,  which  I  see 
Pure  through  its  depths,  a  thing  without  disguise  ; 
Thou  that  hath  breathed  in  slumber  on  my  breast, 
When  I  have  checked  its  throbs  to  give  thee  rest, 
Mine  own !  whose  young  thoughts  fresh  before  me  rise! 
Is'it  not  much  that  I  may  guide  thy  prayer, 
And  circle  thy  glad  soul  with  free  and  healthful  air  ? 


Why  should  I  weep  on  thy  bright  head,  my  boy  ? 
Within  thy  fathers'  halls  thou  wilt  not  dwell, 
Nor  lift  their  banner,  with  a  warrior's  joy, 
Amidst  the  sons  of  mountain  chiefs,  who  fell 
For  Spain  of  old.     Yet  what  if  rolling  waves 
Have  borne  us  far  from  our  ancestral  graves  ? 
Thou  shall  not  feel  thy  bursting  heart  rebel, 
As  mine  hath  done  ;  nor  bear  what  I  have  borne, 
Casting  in  falsehood's  mould  the  indignant  brow  of  scorn. 

X. 

This  shall  not  be  thy  lot,  my  blessed  child ! 
I  have  not  sorrowed,  struggled,  lived  in  vain. 
Hear  me  !  magnificent  and  ancient  wild  ; 
And  mighty  rivers,  ye  that  meet  the  main, 
As  deep  meets  deep  ;  and  forests,  whose  dim  shade 
The  flood's  voice,  and  the  wind's,  by  swells  pervade; 
Hear  me !     'Tis  well  to  die,  and  not  complain  ; 
Yet  there  are  hours  when  the  charged  heart  must  speak, 
E'en  in  the  desert's  ear  to  pour  itself,  or  break ! 

XI. 

I  see  an  oak  before  me  :  it  hath  been 
The  crowned  one  of  the  woods  ;  and  might  have  flung 
Its  hundred  arms  to  heaven,  still  freshly  green ; 
But  a  wild  vine  around  the  stem  hath  clung, 
From  branch  to  branch  close  wreaths  of  bondage  throwing, 
Till  the  proud  tree,  before  no  tempest  bowing, 
Hath  shrunk  and 'died  those  serpent  folds  among. 
Alas  !  alas !  what  is  it  that  I  see  ? 
An  image  of  man's  mind,  land  of  my  sires,  with  thee! 


*8  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


Yet  art  thou  lovely  !     Song  is  on  thy  hills  : 
O  sweet  and  mournful  melodies  of  Spain, 
Tbat  lulled  my  boyhood,  how  your  memory  thrills 
The  exile's  heart  with  sudden-wakening  pain ! 
Your  sounds  are  on  the  rocks : — that  I  might  hear 
Once  more  the  music  of  the  mountaineer  ! 
And  from  the  sunny  vales  the  shepherd's  strain 
Floats  out,  and  fills  the  solitary  place 
With  the  old  tuneful  names  of  Spain's  heroic  race. 


But  there  was  silence  one  bright,  golden  day, 
Through  my  own  pine-hung  mountains.     Clear,  yet  lorie, 
In  the  rich  autumn  lighc  the  vineyards  lay, 
And  from  the  fields  the  peasant's  voice  was  gone  ; 
And  the  red  grapes  untrodden  strewed  the  ground  ; 
And  the  free  flocks,  untended,  roamed  around. 
Where  was  the  pastor  ? — where  the  pipe's  wild  tone  ? 
Music  and  mirth  were  hushed  the  hills  among, 
"While  to  the  city's  gates  each  hamlet  poured  its  throng 


Silence  upon  the  mountains!     But  within 

The  city's  gate  a  rush,  a  press,  a  swell 

Of  multitudes,  their  torrent-way  to  win  ; 

And  heavy  boomings  of  a  dull  deep  bell, 
,A  dead  pause  following  each — like  that  which  parts 
^ The  dash  of  billows,  holding  breathless  hearts 

Fast  in  the  hush  of  fear — knell  after  knell ; 
J  And  sounds  of  thickening  steps,  like  thunder  rain 
That  plashes  on  the  roof  of  some  vast  echoing  fane  ! 

xv. 

What  pageant's  hour  approached  ?     The  sullen  gat» 
Of  a  strong  ancient  prison-house  was  thrown 
Back  to  the  day.     And  who,  in  mournful  state, 
Came  forth,  led  slowly  o'er  its  threshold-stone  ? 
They  that  had  learned,  in  cells  of  secret  gloom, 
How  sunshine  is  forgotten  !     They  to  whom 
The  very  features  of  mankind  were  grown 
Things  that  bewildered  !     O'er  their  dazzled  sight 
They  lifted  their  warm  hands,  and  cowered  before  the  light  I 


To  this,  man  brings  his  brother !     Some  were  the*e, 
Who,  with  their  desolation,  had  entwined 
Fierce  strength,  and  girt  the  sternness  of  despair 
'Fast  round  their  bosoms,  even  as  warriors  bind- 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY,  29 


The  breastplate  on  for  fight ;  hut  hrow  and  cheek 
Seemed  theirs  a  torturing  panoply  to  speak ! 
And  there  were  some,  from  whom  the  very  mind 
Had  been  wrung  out  ;  they  smiled — oh,  startling  smile, 
\Ylvence  man's  high  soul  is  tied  !     Where  doth  it.  sleep  the  while  ? 


Hut  onward  moved  the  melancholy  train, 
For  their  false  creeds  in  fiery  pangs  to  die. 
This  was  the  solemn  sacrifice  of  Spain — 
Heaven's  offering  from  the  land  of  chivalry  ! 
Through  thousands,  thousands  of  their  race  they  moved — 
( >h  !  how  unlike  all  others! — the  beloved, 
The  free,  the  proud,  the  beautiful !  whose  eye 
Grew  fixed  before  them,  while  a  people's  breath 
XY.i:-.  hushed,  and  its  one  soul  bound  in  the  thought  of  death  ! 


It  might  be  that,  amidst  the  countless  throng, 
There  swelled  some  heart  with  pity's  weight  oppressed: 
For  the  wide  stream  of  human  love  is  strong; 
And  woman,  on  whose  fond  and  faithful  breast 
Childhood  is  reared,  and  at  whose  knee  the  sigh 
Of  its  first  prayer  is  breathed — she,  too,  was  nigh. 
But  life  is  dear,  and  the  free  footstep  blessed, 
And  home  a  sunny  place,  where  each  may  fill 
Some  eye  with  glistening  smiles, — and  therefore  all  were  still. 


All  still,— youth,  courage,  strength  ! — a  winter  laid, 
A  chain  of  palsy  cast,  on  might  and  mind  ! 
vStill,  as  at  noon  a  southern  forest's  shade, 
They  stood,  those  breathless  masses  of  mankind, 

\/  Still,  as  a  frozen  torrent !     But  the  wave 

Soon  leaps  to  foaming  freedom  ;  they,  the  brave, 
Endured — they  saw  the  martyr's  place  assigned 
In  the  red  flames — whence  is  the  withering  spell 

That  numbs  each  human  pulse  ?  They  saw,  and  thought  it  well 

XX. 

And  I,  too,  thought  it  well  !     That  very  morn 
From  a  far  land  I  came,  yet  round  we  clung 
The  spirit  of  my  own.     No  hand  had  torn 
'With  a  strong  grasp  away  the  veil  which  hung 
Between  mine  eyes  and  truth.     I  gazed,  I  saw 
1  >imly,  as  through  a  glass.     In  silent  awe 
I  watched  the  fearful  rites  ;  and  if  there  sprung 
One  rebel  feeling  from  its  deep  founts  up, 
Shuddering,  I  flung  it  back,  as  guilt's  own  poison-cup. 


30  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


But  I  was  wakened  as  the  dreamers  waken, 
Whom  the  shrill  trumpet  and  the  shriek  of  dread 
Rouse  up  at  midnight,  when  their  walls  are  taken, 
And  they  must  battle  till  their  blood  is  shed 
On  their  own  threshold  floor.     A  path  for  light 
Through  my  torn  breast  was  shattered  by  the  might 
Of  the  swift  thunder-stroke  ;  and  freedom's  tread 
Came  in  through  ruins,  late,  yet^not  in  vain, 
Making  the  blighted  place  all  green  with  life  again. 


Still  darkly,  slowly,  as  a  sullen  mass 
Of  cloud  o'ersweeping,  without  wind,  the  sky, 
Dream-like  I  saw  the  sad  procession  pass, 
And  marked  its  victims  with  a  tearless  eye. 
They  moved  before  me  but  as  pictures,  wrought 
Each  to  reveal  some  secret  of  man's  thought, 
On  the  sharp  edge  of  sad  mortality ; 
Till  in  his  place  came  one — oh!  could  it  be? 
My  friend,  my  heart's  first  friend  ! — and  did  I  gaze  on  thee ! 


On  thee  !  with  whom  in  boyhood  I  had  played, 
At  the  grape-gatherings,  by  my  native  streams ; 
And  to  whose  eye  my  youthful  soul  had  laid 
VBare,  as  to  heaven's,  its  glowing  world  of  dreams ; 
And  by  whose  side  midst  warriors  I  had  stood, 
And  in  whose  helm  was  brought — oh,  earned  with  blood'.— 
The  fresh  wave  to  my  lips,  when  tropic  beams 
Smote  on  my  fevered  brow  !     Ay,  years  had  passed, 
Severing  our  paths,  brave  friend  ! — and  thus  we  met  at  last  1    • 


I  see  it  still — the  lofty  mien  thou  borest ! 
On  my  pale  forehead  sat  a  sense  of  power — 
The  very  look  that  once  thou  brightly  worest, 
Cheering  me  onward  through  a  fearful  hour, 
When  we  were  girt  by  Indian  bow  and  spear, 
Midst  the  white  Andes — even  as  mountain  deer, 
Hemmed  in  our  camp  ;  but  through  the  javelin  shower 
We  rent  our  way,  a  tempest  of  despair  ! 
And  thou — hadst  thou  but  died  with  thy  true  brethren  there! 


T  call  the  fond  wish  back — for  thou  hast  perished 
More  nobly  far  my  Alvar  ! — making  known 
The  might  of  truth  ;  and  be  thy  memory  cherished 
With  theirs,  the  thousands  that  around  her  throne 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY.  31 

Have  poured  their  lives  out  smiling,  in  that  doom 
Finding  a  triumph,  if  denied  a  t  >:nb! 
Ay,  with  their  ashes  hath  the  wind  been  sown, 
And  with  the  wind  their  spirit  shall  be  spread, 
Filling  man's  heart  and  home  with  records  of  the  dead. 


Thou  Searcher  of  the  soul !  in  whos.e  dread  sight 
Not  the  bold  guilt  alone  that  mocks  the  skies, 
But  the  scarce  owned  unwhispered  thought  of  night, 
As  a  thing  written  with  the  sunbeam  lies  ; 
Thou  knowest — whose  eye  through  shade  and  depth  can  see, 
That  this  man's  crime  was  but  to  worship  thee, 
Like  those  that  made  their  hearts  thy  sacrifice, 
The  called  of  yore — wont  by  the  Saviour's  side 
On  the  dim  Olive  Mount  to  pray  at  eventide. 


For  the  strong  spirit  will  at  times  awake, 
Piercing  the  mists  that  wrap  her  clay  abode; 
And,  born  of  thee,  she  may  not  always  take 
Earth's  accents  for  the  oracles  of  God ; 
And  even  for  this — O  dust,  whose  mask  is  power  ! 
Reed,  that  wouldst  be  a  scourge  thy  little  hour  ! 
Spark,  whereon  yet  the  mighty  hath  not  trod, 
And  therefore  thou  destroyest ! — where  were  flown 
Our  hopes,  if  man  were  left  to  man's  decree  alone ! 

XXVIII. 

But  this  I  felt  not  yet.     I  could  but  gaze 
On  him,  my  friend;  while  that  swift  moment  threw 
A  sudden  freshness  back  on  vanished  days, 
H_ike  water-drops  on  some  dim  picture's  hue ; 
Calling  the  proud  time  up,  when  first  I  stood 
Where  banners  floated,  and  my  heart's  quick  blood 
Sprang  to  a  torrent  as  the  clarion  blew, 
And  he — his  sword  was  like  a  brother's  worn, 
That  watches  through  the  field  his  mother's  youngest  born. 

XXIK. 

But  a  lance  met  me  in  that  day's  career — 
Senseless  I  lay  amidst  the  o'ersweeping  fight ; 
Wakening  at  last,  how  full,  how  strangely  clear, 
That  scene  on  memory  flashed  ! — the  shivery  light, 
Moonlight,  on  broken  shields — the  plain  of  slaughter, 
The  fountain-side,  the  low  sweet  sound  of  water — 
And  Alvar  bending  o'er  me — from  the  night 
Covering  me  with  his  mantle.     All  the  past 
Plowed  back  :  my  soul's  far  chords  all  answered  to  the  blast 


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XXX. 

Till,  in  that  rush  of  visions,  I  became 
As  one  that,  by  the  bands  of  slumber  wound. 
Lies  with  a  powerless  but  all-thrilling  frame, 
Intense  in  consciousness  of  sight  and  sound, 
Yet  buried  in  a  wildering  dream  which  brings 
Loved  faces  round  him,  girt  with  fearful  things  I 
Troubled  even  thus  I  stood,  but  chained  and  bound 
On  that  familiar  form  mine  eye  to  keep: 
Alas  !  I  might  not  fall  upon  his  neck  and  weep  ! 


He  passed  me,  and  what  next  ?    I  looked  on  two. 
Following  his  footsteps  to  the  same  dread  place, 
For  the  same  guilt — his  sisters !     Well  I  knew 
The  beauty  on  those  brows,  though  each  young  face 
"Was  changed — so  deeply  changed  ! — a  dungeon's  air 
Is  hard  for  loved  and  lovely  things  to  bear. 
And  ye,  O  daughters  of  a  lofty  race, 
Queen-like  Theresa  1  radiant  Inez  ! — flowers 
So  cherished  !  were  ye  then  but  reared  for  those  dark  hours* 


A  mournful  holne,  young  sisters,  had  ye  left ! 
With  your  lutes  hanging  hushed  upon  the  wall, 
And  silence  round  the  aged  man,  bereft 
Of  each  glad  voice  once  answering  to  his  call. 
Alas,  that  lonely  father !  doomed  to  pine 
For  sounds  departed  in  his  life's  decline  ; 
And,  midst  the  shadowing  banners  of  his  hall, 
With  his  white  hair  to  sit,  and  deem  the  name 
A  hundred  chiefs  had  borne,  cast  down  by  you  to  shame 


And  woe  for  you,  midst  looks  and  words  of  love, 
And  gentle  hearts  and  faces,  nursed  so  long  1 
How  had  I  seen  you  in  your  beauty  move, 
Wearing  the  wreath,  and  listening  to  the  song! — 
Yet  sat,  even  then,  what  seemed  the  crowd  to  shun, 
Half-veiled  upon  the  pale  clear  brow  of  one, 
And  deeper  thoughts  than  oft  to  youth  belong — 
Thoughts,  such  as  wake  to  evening's  whispery  sway 
Within  the  drooping  shade  of  her  sweet  eyelids  lay. 


And  if  she  mingled  with  the  festive  train, 
It  was  but  as  some  melancholy  star 
Beholds  the  dance  of  shepherds  on  the  plain, 
In  its  bright  stillness  present,  though  afar- 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY.  33 

Yet  would  she  smile — and  that,  too,  hath  its  smile 
Circled  with  joy  which  reached  her  not  the  while, 
And  bearing  a  lone  spirit,  not  at  war 
With  earthly  things,  but  o'er  their  form  and  hue 
Shedding  too  clear  a  light,  too  sorrowfully  true. 

XXXV. 

But  the  dark  hours  wring  forth  the  hidden  might 
Which  hath  lain  bedded  in  the  silent  soul, 
A  treasure  all  undreamt  of, — as  the  night 
Calls  out  the  harmonies  of  streams  that  roH 
Unheard  by  day.     It  seemed  as  if  her  breast 
Had  hoarded  energies,  till  then  suppressed 
Almost  with  pain,  and  bursting  from  control, 
And  finding  first  that  hour  their  pathway  free  : 
Could  a  rose  brave  the  storm,  such  might  her  emblem  be  I 


For  the  soft  gloom  whose  shadow  still  had  hung 
On  her  fair  brow,  beneath  its  garlands  worn, 
Was  fled ;  and  fire,  like  prophecy's,  had  sprung 
Clear  to  her  kindled  eye.     It  might  be  scorn — 
Pride — sense  of  wrong ;  ay,  the  frail  heart  is  bound 
By  these  at  times,  even  as  with  adamant  round, 
Kept  so  from  breaking  !   "Yet  not  thus  upborne 
She  moved,  though  some  sustaining  passion's  wave 
Lifted  her  fervent  soul — a  sister  for  the  brave  I 

XXXVII. 

And  yet,  alas  !  to  see  the  strength  which  clings 
Round  woman  in  such  hours  !  a  mournful  sight, 
Thought  lovely  !— an  o'erflowing  of  the  springs, 
The  full  springs  of  affection,  deep  as  bright! 
And  she,  because  her  life  is  ever  twined 
With  other  lives,  and  by  no  stormy  wind 
May  thence  be  shaken,  and  because  the  light 
Of  tenderness  is  round  her,  and  her  eye 
Doth  weep  such  passionate  tears — therefore  she  thus  can  die 


Therefore  didst  thou,  through  that  heart-shaking  scene. 
As  through  a  triumph  move  ;  and  cast  aside 
Thine  own  sweet  thoughtfulness  for  victory's  mien, 
O  faithful  sister !  cheering  thus  the  guide, 
And  friend,  and  brother  of  thy  sainted  youth, 
Whose  hand  had  led  thee  to  the  source  of  truth, 
Where  thy  glad  soul  from  earth  was  purified  ; 
Nor  wouldst  thou,  following  him  through  all  the  past, 
That  he  should  see  thy  step  grow  tremulous  at  last 


34  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


For  thou  hadst  made  no  deeper  love  a  guest 
Midst  thy  young  spirit's  dreams,  than  that  which  grows 
Between  the  nurtured  of  the  same  fond  breast, 
The  sheltered  of  one  roof;  and  thus  it  rose 
Twined  in  with  life.     How  is  it  that  the  hours 
Of  the  same  sport,  the  gathering  early  flowers 
Round  the  same  tree,  the  sharing  one  repose, 
And  mingling  one  first  prayer  in  murmurs  soft, 
From  the  heart's  memory  fade  in  this  world's  breath  so  oft  ? 

XL. 

But  tliee  that  breath  had  touched  not ;  thee,  nor  him. 
The  true  in  all  things  found  ! — and  thou  wert  blest 
Even  then,  that  no  remembered  change  could  dim 
The  perfect  image  of  affection  pressed 
yLike  armor  to  thy  bosom!     Thou  hadst  kept 
Watch  by  thy  brother's  couch  of  pain,  and  wept, 
Thy  sweet  face  covering  with  thy  robe,  when  rest 
Fled  from  the  sufferer ;  thou  hadst  bound  his  faith 
Unto  thy  soul ;  one  light,  one  hope  ye  chose — one  death. 


So  didst  thou  pass  on  brightly  ! — but  for  her, 
Next  in  that  path,  how  may  her  doom  be  spoken  ! 
All  Merciful !  to  think  that  such  things  were. 
And  are,  and  seen  by  men  with  hearts  unbroken! 
To  think  of  that  fair  girl,  whose  path  had  been 
So  strewed  with  rose-leaves,  all  one  fairy  scene  ! 
And  whose  quick  glance  came  ever  as  a  token 
Of  hope  to  drooping  thought,  and  her  glad  voice 
As  a  free  bird's  in  spring,  that  makes  the  woods  rejoice  I 

XLII. 

And  she  to  die  ! — she  loved  the  laughing  earth 
With  such  deep  joy  in  its  fresh  leaves  and  flowers  1 
^was  not  her  smile  even  as  the  sudden  birth 
Of  a  young  rainbow,  coloring  vernal  showers  ? 
Yes  !  but  to  meet  her  fawn-like  step,  to  hear 
The  gushes  of  wild  song,  so  silvery  clear, 
Which  oft,  unconsciously,  in  happier  hours 
Flowed  from  her  lips,  was  to  forget  the  sway 
Of  Time  and  Death  below,  blight,  shadow,  dull  decay  f 
XLIII. 

Could  this  change  be  ?     The  hour,  the  scene,  where  last 
I  saw  that  form,  came  floating  o'er  my  mind: 
A  golden  vintage-eve ;  the  heats  were  passed, 
And,  in  the  freshness  of  the  fanning  wind, 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


35 


Her  father  sat  where  gleamed  the  first  faint  star 
Through  the  lime-boughs  ;  and  wit'h  her  light  guitar, 
She,  on  the  greensward  at  his  feet  reclined, 
In  his  calm  face  laughed  up  ;  some  shepherd  lay 
Singing,  as  childhood  sings  on  the  lone  hills  at  play. 


And  now — oh,  God — the  bitter  fear  of  death, 
The  sore  amaze,  the  faint  o'ershadowing  dread, 
Had  giasped  her! — panting  in  her  quick  drawn  breath, 
And  in  her  white  lips  quivering.     Onward  led, 
She  looked  up  with  her  dim  bewildered  eyes, 
And  there  smiled  out  her  own  soft  brilliant  skies, 
Far  in  their  sultry  southern  azure  spread, 
Glowing  with  joy,  but  silent! — still  they  smiled, 
Yet  sent  down  no  reprieve  for  earth's  poor  trembling  child. 


Alas  !  that  earth  had  all  too  stong  a  hold, 
Too  fast,  sweet  Inez  !  on  thy  heart,  whose  bloom 
Was  given  to  early  love,  nor  knew  how  cold 
The  hours  which  follow.     There  was  one,  with  whom 
Young  as  thou  wert,  and  gentle,  and  untried, 
Thou  mightst,  perchance,  unshrinkingly  have  died : 
But  he  was  far  away  ;  anc.  with  thy  doom 
Thus  gathering,  life  grew  so  intensely  dear, 
That  all  thy  slight  frame  shook  with  its  cold  mortal  fear  I 

XLVI. 

No  aid  ? — thou  too  didst  pass  1 — and  all  had  passed, 
The  fearful— and  the  desperate — and  the  strong  I 
^Some  like  the  bark  that  rushes  with  the  blast, 
^Some  like  the  leaf  swept  shiveringly  along ; 
V^    And  some  as  men,  that  have  but  one  more  field 
To  fight,  and  then  may  slumber  on  their  shield, — 
Therefore  they  arm  in  hope.     But  now  the  throng 
Rolled  on,  and  bore  me  with  their  living  tide, 
y  Even  as  a  bark  wherein  is  bft  no  power  to  guide. 


Wave  swept  on  wave.     We  reached  a  stately  square, 
Decked  for  the  rites.     An  altar  stood  on  high, 
And  gorgeous  in  the  midst :  a  place  for  prayer, 
And  praise,  and  offering.     Could  the  earth  supply 
No  fruits,  no  flowers  for  sacrifice,  of  all 
Which  on  her  sunny  lap  unheeded  fall  ? 
No  fair  young  firstling  of  the  flock  to  die, 
As  when  before  their  God  the  patriarchs  stood  ? 
Lock  down  !  man  brings  thee,  heaven  !  his  brother's  guiltless 


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XLVIII. 

Hear  its  voice,  hear  !  —  a  cry  goes  up  to  thee, 
From  the  stained  sod  ;  make  thou  thy  judgment  known 
On  him  the  shedder  !  —  let  his  portion  be 
The  fear  that  walks  at  midnight  —  give  the  moan 
In  the  wind  haunting  him,  a  power  to  say, 
"  Where  is  thy  brother  ?  "  —  and  the  stars  a  ray 
To  search  and  shake  his  spirit,  when  alone, 
With  the  dread  splendor  of  their  burning  eyes  ! 
So  shall  earth  own  thy  will  —  Mercy,  not  sacrifice  ! 


Sounds  of  triumphant  praise  I  the  mass  was  sung — 
Voices  that  die  not  might  have  poured  such  strains  ? 
Through  Salem's  towers  might  that  proud  chant  hav2  rung 
When  the  Most  High,  on  Syria's  palmy  plains, 
Had  quelled  her  foes  ! — so  full  it  swept,  a  sea 
Of  loud  waves  jubilant,  and  rolling  free  ! 
— Oft  when  the  wind,  as  through  resounding  fanes, 
Hath  filled  the  choral  forests  with  its  power, 
Some  deep  tone  brings  me  back  the  music  of  that  hour. 


It  died  away  ; — the  incense-cloud  was  tlriven 
Before  the  breeze — the  words  of  doom  were  said  ; 
And  the  sun  faded  mournfully  from  heaven  : 
He  faded  mournfully  and  dimly  red, 
Parting  in  clouds  from  those  that  looked  their  last, 
And  sighed  —  "  Farewell,  thou  sun  ! "     Eve  glowed  and  passed 
Night — midnight  and  the  moon — came  forth  and  shed 
Sleep,  even  as  dew,  on  glen,  wood,  peopled  spot — 
Save  one — a  place  of  death — and  there  men  slumbered  not. 


within  the  city — but  in  sight 
Of  the  snow-crowned  sierras,  freely  sweeping, 
With  many  an  eagle's  eyrie  on  the  height, 
And  hunter's  cabin,  by  the  torrent  peeping 
Far  off :  and  vales  between,  and  vineyards  lay, 
With  sound  and  gleam  of  waters  on  their  way, 
And  chestnut  woods,  .that  girt  the  happy  sleeping 
In  many  a  pleasant  home  ! — the  midnight  sky 
Brought  softly  that  rich  world  round  those  who  came  to  die. 

LI  I. 

The  darkly  glorious  midnight  sky  of  Spain, 
Burning  with  stars  !     What  had  the  torches' glare 
To  do  beneath  that  temple,  and  profane 
Its  holy  radiance  ?    By  their  wavering  flare, 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY.  37 

I  saw  beside  the  pyres — I  see  thee  now, 
O  bright  Theresa  !     with  thy  lifted  brow, 
And  thy  clasped  hands,  and  dark  eyes  filled  with  prayer  I 
And  thee,  sad  Inez!  bowing  thy  fair  head, 
And  mantling  up  thy  face,  all  colorless  with  dread! 

LIII. 

And  Alvar,  Alvar ! — I  beheld  thee  too, 
Pale,  steadfast,  kingly  :  till  thy  clear  glance  fell 
On  that  young  sister  ;  then  perturbed  it  grew, 
And  all  thy  laboring  bosom  seemed  to  swell 
With  painful  tenderness.     Why  came  I  there, 
That  troubled  image  of  my  friend  to  bear 
Thence,  for  my  after  years  ? — a  thing  to  dwell 
In  my  heart's  core,  and  on  the  darkness  rise, 
Disquieting  my  dreams  with  its  bright  mournful  eyes  I 


Why  came  I  ? — oh  !  the  heart's  deep  mystery !    Why 
In  man's  last  hour  doth  vain  affection's  gaze 
Fix  itself  down  on  struggling  agony, 
To  the  dimmed  eyeballs  freezing  as  they  glaze  ? 
It  might  be — yet  the  power  to  will  seemed  o'er—- 
That my  soul  yearned  to  hear  his  voice  once  more  f 
But  mine  was  fettered ! — mute  in  strong  amaze, 
I  watched  his  features  as  the  night-wind  blew, 
And  torch-light  or  the  moon's  passed  o'er  their  marble  hue. 

LV. 

The  trampling  of  a  steed  !     A  tall  white  steed, 
Rending  his  fiery  way  the  crowds  among — 
A  storm's  way  through  a  forest — came  at  speed, 
And  a  wild  voice  cried  "  Inez !  "     Swift  she  flung 
The  mantle  from  her  face,  and  gazed  around, 
With  a  faint  shriek  at  that  familiar  sound; 
And  from  his  seat  a  breathless  rider  sprung 
And  dashed  off  fiercely  those  who  came  to  part, 
And  rushed  to  that  pale  girl,  and  clasped  her  to  his  heart 


And  for  a  moment  all  around  gave  way 
To  that  full  burst  of  passion  !     On  his  breast, 
Like  a  bird  panting  yet  from  fear,  she  lay, 
But  blest — in  misery's  very  lap — yet  blest ! 
Oh  love,  love,  strong  as  death  ! — from  such  an  hour 
Pressing  out  joy  by  thine  immortal  power ; 
Holy  and  fervent  love  !  had  earth  but  rest 
For  thee  and  thine,  this  world  were  all  too  fair  ! 
How  could  we  thence  l>o  weaned  to  die  without  despair? 


38  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


LVII. 

But  she — as  falls  a  willow  from  the  storm, 
O'er  its  own  river  streaming — thus  reclined 
On  the  youth's  bosom  hung  her  fragile  form, 
And  clasping  arms,  so  passionately  twined 
Around  his  neck — with  such  a  trusting  fold, 
A  full  deep  sense  of  safety  in  their  hold, 
As  if  naught  earthly  might  the  embrace  unbind! 
Alas  1  a  child's  fond  faith,  believing  still 
Its  mother's  breast  beyond  the  lightning's  reach  to  kill! 


Brief  rest !  upon  the  turning  billow's  height 
A  strange  sweet  moment  of  some  heavenly  strain, 
Floating  between  the  savage  gusts  of  night, 
That  sweep  the  seas  to  foam  !     Soon  dark  again 
The  hour — the  scene  ;  the  intensely  present  rushed 
Back  on  her  spirit,  and  her  large  tears  gushed 
Like  blood-drops  from  a  victim — with  swift  rain 
Bathing  the  bosom  where  she  leaned  that  hour, 
As  if  her  life  would  melt  into  the  o'erswelling  shower. 


But  he  whose  arm  sustained  her ! — oh,  I  knew 
'Twas  vain ! — and  yet  he  hoped — he  fondly  strove 
Back  from  her  faith  her  sinking  soul  to  woo, 
As  life  might  yet  be  hers !     A  dream  of  love 
Which  could  not  look  upon  so  fair  a  thing, 
Remembering  how  like  hope,  like  joy,  like  spring, 
Her  smile  was  wont  to  glance,  her  step  to  move, 
And  deem  that  men  indeed,  in  very  truth, 
Could  mean  the  sting  of  death  for  her  soft  flowering  youthl 


He  wooed  her  back  to  life.     "  Sweet  Inez,  live ! 
My  blessed  Inez  ! — visions  have  beguiled 
Thy  heart ;  abjura  them  !  thou  wert  formed  to  give 
And  to  find  joy  ;  and  hath  not  sunshine  smiled 
Around  thee  ever  ?     Leave  me  not,  mine  own  ! 
Or  earth  will  grow  too  dark  ! — for  thee  alone, 
Thee  have  I  loved,  thou  gentlest !  from  a  child, 
And  borne  thine  image  with  me  o'er  the  sea, 
Thy  soft  voice  in  my  soul.     S.peak  !     Oh  !  yet  live  for  met 

LXl. 

She  looked  up  wildly;  there  were  anxious  eye» 
Waiting  that  look — sad  eyes  of  troubled  thoughx, 
Alvar's — Theresa's !     Did  her  childhood  rise, 
With  all  its  pure  and  home-affections  fraught, 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY.  39 


In  the  brief  glance  !     She  clasped  her  hands — the  strife 
Of  love,  faith,  fear,  and  that  vain  dream  of  life, 
Within  her  woman's  breast  so  deeply  wrought, 
It  seemed  as  if  a  reed  so  slight  and  weak 
Must,  in  the  rending  storm  not  quiver  only — break ! 


And  thus  it  was.     The  young  cheek  flushed  and  faded, 
As  the  swift  blood  in  currents  came  and  went, 
And  hues  of  death  the  marble  brow  o'ershaded, 
And  the  sunk  eye  a  watery  lustre  sent 
Through  its  white  fluttering  lids.     Then  tremblings  passed 
O'er  the  frail  form,  that  shook  it  as  the  blast 
Shakes  the  sere  leaf,  until  the  spirit  rent 
Its  way  to  peace — the  fearful  way  unknown. 
Pale  in  love's  arms  she  lay — she! — what  had  loved  was  gone  I 


Joy  for  thee,  trembler  ! — thou  redeemed  one,  joy  ! 
Voung  dove  set  free  ! — earth,  ashes,  soulless  clay, 
Remained  for  baffled  vengeance  to  destroy. 
Thy  chain  was  riven  !     Nor  hadst  thou  cast  away 
Thy  hope  in  thy  last  hour  ! — though  love  was  there 
Striving  to  wring  thy  troubled  soul  from  prayer, 
And  life  seemed  robed  in  beautiful  array, 
Too  fair  to  leave  I — but  this  might  be  forgiven, 
Thou  wert  so  richly  crowned  with  precious  gifts  of  heaven  J 


But  woe  for  him  who  felt  the  heart  grow  still, 
Which,  with  its  weight  of  agony,  had  lain 
Breaking  on  his  !     Scarce  could  the  mortal  chill 
Of  the  hushed  bosom,  ne'er  to  heave  again, 
And  all  the  silence  curdling  round  the  eye, 
Bring  home  the  stern  belief  that  she  could  die — 
That  she  indeed  could  die  ! — for,  wild  and  vain 
As  hope  might  be,  his  soul  had  hoped :  'twas  o'er — 
Slowly  his  failing  arms  dropped  from  the  form  they  bore. 


They  forced  him  from  the  spot.     It  might  be  well, 
That  the  fierce  reckless  words  by  anguish  wrung 
From  his  torn  breast,  all  aimless  as  they  fell, 
Like  spray-drops  from  the  strife  of  torrents  flung, 
Were  marked  as  guilt.    There  are  who  note  these  things 
Against  the  smitten  heart ;  its  breaking  strings 
— On  whose  low  thrills  once  gentle  music  hung — 
With  a  rude  hand  of  touch  unholy  trying, 
A.nd  numbering  them  as  crimes,  the  deep,  strange  tones  replying. 


40  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


But  ye  in  solemn  joy,  O  faithful  pair  I 

Stood  gazing  on  your  parted  sister's  dust ; 

I  saw  your  features  by  the  torch's  glare, 

And  they  were  brightening  with  a  heavenward  trust  I 

I  saw  the  doubt,  the  anguish,  the  dismay, 

Melt  from  my  Alvar's  glorious  mien  away  ; 

And  peace  was  there — the  calmness  of  the  just ! 

And,  bending  down  the  slumberer's  brow  to  kiss, 

Thy  rest  is  won,"  he  said,  "  sweet  sister !     Praise  for  this  J " 


I  started  as  from  sleep  ; — yes  ! — he  had  spoken — 
A  breeze  had  troubled  memory's  hidden  source ! 
At  once  the  torpor  of  my  soul  was  broken — 
Thought,  feeling,  passion,  woke  in  tenfold  force. 
There  are  soft  breathings  in  the  southern  wind, 
That  so  your  ice-chains,  O  ye  streams  !  unbind, 
And  free  the  foaming  swiftness  of  your  course  ! 
I  burst  from  those  that  held  me  back,  and  fell 
Even  on  his  neck,  and  cried — "  Friend  !  brother !  fare  thee  well 


Did  he  not  say  "  Farewell  ?  "     Alas  !  no  breath 
Came  to  mine  ear.     Hoarse  murmurs  from  the  throng 
Told  that  the  mysteries  in  the  face  of  death 
Had  from  their  eager  sight  been  veiled  too  long. 
And  we  were  parted  as  the  surge  might  part 
Those  that  would  die  together,  true  of  heart. 
His  hour  was  come — but  in  mine  anguish  strong, 
Like  a  fierce  swimmer  through  the  midnight  sea, 
Blindly  I  rushed  away  from  that  which  was  to  be. 

LXIX. 

Away — away  I  rushed ;  but  swift  and  high 
The  arrowy  pillars  of  the  firelight  grew, 
Till  the  transparent  darkness  of  the  sky 
Flushed  to  a  blood-red  mantle  in  their  hue  ; 
And,  phantom-like,  the  kindling  city  seemed 
To  spread,  float,  wave,  as  on  the  wind  they  streamed, 
With  their  wild  splendor  chasing  me  !     I  knew 
The  death-work  was  begun — I  veiled  mine  eyes, 
Yet  stopped  in  spell-bound  fear  to  catch  the  victims'  cries. 


What  heard  I  then  ? — a  ringing  shriek  of  pain, 
Such  as  forever  haunts  the  tortured  ear  ? 
I  heard  a  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  strain 
Piercing  the  flame,  untrcmnlous  and  clear  ! 


THE  FOXES  T  SA  NCTUA  R  Y.  41 

The  rich,  triumphal  tones  \ — I  knew  them  well, 
As  they  came  floating  with  a  breezy  swell  ! 
Man's  voice  was  there — a  clarion-voice  to  cheer 
In  the  mid-battle — ay,  to  turn  the  flying  ; 
Woman's — that  might  have  sung  of  heaven  beside  the  dying! 


It  was  a  fearful,  yet  a  glorious  thing 
To  hear  that  hymn  of  martyrdom,  and  know 
That  its  glad  stream  of  melody  could  spring 
Up  fpom  the  unsounded  gulfs  of  human  woe  ! 
Alvar !  Theresa  ! — what  is  deep  ?  what  strong  ? 
— God's  breath  within  the  soul !     It  filled  that  song 
From  your  victorious  voices  !     But  the  glow 
On  the  hot  air  and  lurid  skies  increased: 
Faint  grew  the  sounds — more  faint :  I  listened — they  had  ceased 


And  thou  indeed  hadst  perished,  my  soul's  friend ! 
I  might  from  other  ties — but  thou  alone 
Couldst  with  a  glance  the  veil  of  dimness  rend, 
Bv  other  years  o'er  boyhood's  memory  thrown  ! 
Others  might  aid  me  onward :  thou  and  I 
Had  mingled  the  fresh  thoughts  that  early  die, 
Once  flowering — never  more  !     And  thou  wert  gone  I 
Who  could  give  back  my  youth,  my  spirit  free, 
Or  be  in  aught  again  what  thou  hadst  been  to  me  ? 


And  yet  I  wept  thee  not,  thou  true  and  brave  ! 
I  could  not  weep — there  gathered  round  thy  name 
Too  deep  a  passion.      Thou  denied  a  grave  ! 
T/IOH,  with  the  blight  flung  on  thy  soldier's  fame  ! 
Had  I  not  known  thy  heart  from  childhood's  time  ? 
Thy  heart  of  hearts  ? — and  couldst  thou  die  for  crime? 
No  !  had  all  earth  decreed  that  death  of  shame, 
1  would  have  set,  against  all  earth's  decree, 
The  inalienable  trust  of  my  firm  soul  in  thee  1 


There  are  swift  hours  in  life — strong,  rushing  hours. 
That  do  the  work  of  tempests  in  their  might ! 
They  shake  down  things  that  stood  as  rocks  and  towers 
Unto  the  undoubting  mind  ;  they  pour  in  light 
Where  it  but  startles — like  a  burst  of  day 
For  which  the  uprooting  of  an  oak  makes  way  ; 
They  sweep  the  coloring  mists  from  off  our  sight; 
They  touch  with  fire  thought's  graven  page,  the  roll 
Stamped  with  past  years     and  lo!  it  shrivels  as  a  scroll  t 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


And  this  was  of  such  hours !     The  sudden  flow 
Of  my  soul's  tide  seemed  whelming  me  ;  the  glare 
Of  the  red  flames,  yet  rocking  to  and  fro, 
Scorched  up  my  heart  with  breathless  thirst  for  air. 
And  solitude,  and  freedom.     It  had  been 
Well  with  me  then,  in  some  vast  desert  scene, 
To  pour  my  voice  out,  for  the  winds  to  bear 
On  with  them,  wildly  questioning  the  sky, 
Fiercely  the  untroubled  stars,  of  man's  dim  destiny. 

LXXVI. 

I  would  have  called,  adjuring  the  dark  cloud; 
To  the  most  ancient  heavens  I  %vould  have  said — 
"  Speak  to  me  !  show  me  truth  !  " — through  night  aloud 
I  would  have  cried  to  him,  the  newly  dead, 
"  Come  back  1  and  show  me  truth ! "     My  spirit  seemed 
Gasping  for  some  free  burst,  its  darkness  teemed 
With  such  pent  storms  of  thought  1     Again  I  fled. 
I  fled,  a  refuge  from  man's  face  to  gain, 
Scarce  conscious  when  I  paused,  entering  a  lonely  fane. 


A  mighty  minster,  dim,  and  proud,  and  vast ! 
Silence  was  round  the  sleepers  whom  its  floor 
Shut  in  the  grave  ;    a  shadow  of  the  past, 
A  memory  of  the  sainted  steps  that  wore 
Erewhile  its  gorgeous  pavement,  seemed  to  brood 
Like  mist  upon  the  stately  solitude; 
A  halo  of  sad  fame  to  mantle  o'er 
Its  white  sepulchral  forms  of  mail-clad  men; 
And  ail  was  hushed  as  night  in  some  deep  Alpint  glen. 


More  hushed,  far  more  ! — for  there  the  wind  sweeps  by, 
Or  the  woods  tremble  to  the  stream's  loud  play; 
Here  a  strange  echo  made  my  very  sigh 
Seem  for  the  place  too  much  a  sound  of  day ! 
Too  much  my  footsteps  broke  the  moonlight,  fading, 
Yet  arch  through  arch  in  one  soft  flow  pervading, 
And  I  stood  still  :  prayer,  chant  had  died  away  ; 
Yet  past  me  floated  a  funereal  breath    • 
Of  incense.     I  stood  still — as  before  God  and  death. 


For  thick  ye  girt  me  round,  ye  long  departed  ! 
Dust— imaged  forms — with  cross,  and  shield,  and  crest; 
It  seemed  as  if  your  ashes  would  have  started 
Had  a  wild  voice  burst  forth  above  your  rest ! 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY.  43 


Yet  ne'er,  perchance,  did  worshipper  of  yore 
Bear  to  your  thrilling  presence  what  /bore 
Of  wrath,  doubt,  anguish,  battling  in  the  breast ! 
I  could  have  poured  out  words,  on  that  pale  air, 
To  make  your  proud  tombs  ring      No,  no  I  I  could  not  thert 

LXXX. 

Not  midst  those  aisles,  through  which  a  thousand  years, 
Mutely  as  clouds,  and  reverently,  had  swept; 
Not  by  those  shrines,  which  yet  the  trace  of  tears 
And  kneeling  votaries  on  their  marble  kept ! 
Ye  were  too  mighty  in  your  pomp  of  gloom 
And  trophied  age,  O  temple,  altar,  tomb  ! 
And  you,  ye  dead  ! — for  in  that  faith  ye  slept, 
Whose  weight  had  grown  a  mountain's  on  my  heart, 
Which  could  not  there  be  loosed.     I  turned  me  to  depart 

LXXXI. 

I  turned;  what  glimmered  faintly  on  my  sight — 
Faintly,  yet  brightening  as  a  wreath  of  snow 
Seen  through  dissolving  haze  ?     The  moon,  the  night, 
Had  waned,  and  down  poured  in — gray,  shadowy,  slow, 
Yet  dayspring  still !     A  solemn  hue  it  caught, 
Piercing  the  storied  windows,  darkly  fraught 
With  stoles  and  draperies  of  imperial  glow  ; 
And,  soft  and  sad,  that  coloring  gleam  was  thrown 
Where,  pale,  a  pictured  form  above  the  altar  shone. 


Thy  form,  thou  Son  of  God  ! — a  wrathful  deep, 
With  foam,  and  cloud,  and  tempest  round  Thee  spread, 
And  such  a  weight  of  night ! — a  night,  when  sleep 
From  the  fierce  rocking  of  the  billows  fled. 
A  bark  showed  dim  beyond  Thee,  its  mast 
Bowed,  and  its  rent  sail  shivering  to  the  blast ; 
But,  like  a  spirit  in  thy  gliding  tread, 
Thou,  as  o'er  glass,  didst  walk  that  stormy  sea 
Through  rushing  winds,  which  left  a  silent  path  for  Thee. 

LXXXIII. 

So  still  thy  white  robes  fell ! — no  breath  of  air 
Within  their  long  and  slumberous  folds  had  sway. 
So  still  the  waves  of  parted,  shadowy  hair 
From  the  clear  brow  flowed  droopingly  away  ! 
Dark  were  the  heavens  above  thee,  Saviour  I — dark 

'    The  gulfs,  Deliverer  !  round  the  straining  bark  ! 
But  Thou ! — o'er  all  thine  aspect  and  array 
Was  poured  one  stream  of  pale,  broad,  silvery  light: 

Thou  wert  the  single  star  of  that  all-shrouding  night ! 


44  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


LXXXIV. 

Aid  for  one  sinking !     Thy  lone  brightness  gleamed 
On  his  wild  face,  just  lifted  o'er  the  wave, 
With  its  worn,  fearful,  human  look  that  seemed 
To  cry,  through  surge  and  blast — "  I  perish — save  ! " 
Not  to  the  winds-— not  vainly  !     Thou  wert  nigh, 
Thy  hand  was  stretched  to  fainting  agony, 
Even  in  the  portals  of  the  unquiet  grave  ! 
O  Thou  that  art  the  life !  and  yet  didst  bear 
Too  much  of  mortal  woe  to  turn  from  mortal  prayer  f 


But  was  it  not  a  thing  to  rise  on  death, 
With  its  remembered  light,  that  face  of  thine, 
Redeemer  !  dimmed  by  this  world's  misty  breath, 
Yet  mournfully,  mysteriously  divine  ? 
O !  that  calm,  sorrowful,  prophetic  eye, 
With  its  dark  depths  of  grief,  love,  majesty ! 
And  the  pale  glory  of  the  brow  ! — a  shrine 
Where  power  sat  veiled,  yet  shedding  softly  round 
What  told  that  Thou  couldst  be  but  for  a  time  uncrowned ! 

LXXXVI. 

And,  more  than  all,  the  heaven  of  that  sad  smile! 
The  lip  of  mercy,  our  immortal  trust ! 
Did  not  that  look,  that  very  look,  erewhile 
Pour  its  o'ershadowed  beauty  on  the  dust  ? 
Wert  thou  not  such  when  earth's  dark  cloud  hung  o'er  Thee  ?- 
Surely  thou  wert  !  my  "heart  grew  hushed  before  Thee, 
Sinking  with  all  its  passions,  as  the  gust 
Sank  at  thy  voice,  along  the  billowy  way : 
What  had  I  there  to  do  but  kneel,  and  weep,  and  pray  ? 

LXXXVI  I. 

Amidst  the  stillness  rose  my  spirit's  cry, 
Amidst  the  dead — "  By  that  full  cup  of  woe, 
Pressed  from  the  fruitage  of  mortality, 
Saviour  !  for  Thee — give  light !  that  I  may  know 
If  by  thy  will,  in  thine  all-healing  name, 
Men  cast  down  human  hearts  to  blighting  shame, 
And  early  death ;  and  say,  if  this  be  so. 
Where,  then,  is  mercy  ?  '  Whither  shall  we  flee, 
So  unallied  to  hope,  save  by  our  hold  on  Thee  ? 

LXXXVITI. 

"  But  didst  Thou  not,  the  deep  sea  brightly  treading, 
Lift  from  despair  that  struggler  with  the  wave  ? 
And  wert  Thou  not,  sad  tears,  yet  awful,  shedding, 
Beheld  a  weeper  at  a  mortal's  grave  ? 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY.  45 


And  in  this  weight  of  anguish,  which  they  bind 
On  life — this  searing  to  the  quick  of  mind, 
That  but  to  God  its  own  free  path  would  crave — 
This  crushing  out  of  hope,  and  love,  and  youth, 
Thy  will,  indeed  ?    Give  light !  that  I  may  know  the  truth. 

LXXXIX. 

"  For  my  sick  soul. is  darkened  unto  death, 
With  shadows  from  the  suffering  it  hath  seen; 
The  strong  foundations  of  mine  ancient  faith 
Sink  from  beneath  me — whereon  shall  I  lean  ? 
Oh  !  if  from  thy  pure  lips  was  wrung  the  sigh 
Of  the  dust's  anguish  ?  if  like  man  to  die — 
And  earth  round  him  shuts  heavily — hath  been 
Even  to  Thee  bitter,  aid  me!  guide  me  !  turn 
My  wild  and  wandering  thoughts  back  from  their  starless  bourne  |! 

xc. 

And  calmed  I  rose  :  but  how  the  while  had  risen 
Morn's  orient  sun,  dissolving  mist  and  shade  ! 
Could  there  indeed  be  wrong,  or  chain,  or  prison, 
In  the  bright  world  such  radiance  might  pervade  ? 
It  filled  the  fane,  it  mantled  the  pale  form 
Which  rose  before  me  through  the  pictured  storm, 
Even  the  gray  tombs  it  kindled,  and  arrayed 
With  life  ! — How  hard  to  see  thy  race  begun 
And  think  man  wakes  to  grief,  wakening  to  thee,  O  Sunl 


I  sought  my  home  again ;  and  thou,  my  child, 
There  at  thy  play  beneath  yon  ancient  pine, 
With  eyes,  whose  lightning  laughter  hath  beguiled 
A  thousand  pangs,  thence  flashing  joy  to  mine ; 
Thou  in  thy  mother's  arms,  a  babe,  didst  meet 
My  coming  with  young  smiles,  which  yet,  though  sweet, 
Seemed  on  my  soul  all  mournfully  to  shine, 
And  ask  a  happier  heritage  for  thee, 
Than  but  in  turn  the  blight  of  human  hope  to  see. 

xcn. 

Now  sport,  for  thou  art  free  !  the  bright  birds  chasing, 
Whose  wings  waft  star-like  gleams  from  tree  to  tree; 
Or  with  the  fawn,  thy  swift  wood-playmate,  racing, 
Sport  on,  my  joyous  child  !  for  thou  art  free ! 
Yes,  on  that  day  I  took  thee  to  my  heart, 
And  inly  vowed,  for  thee  a  better  part 
To  choose  ;  that  so  thy  sunny  bursts  of  glee 
Should  wake  no  more  dim  thoughts  of  far-seen  woe, 
But,  gladdening  fearless  eyes,  flow  on — as  now  they  flow. 


46  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


xcm. 

Thou  hast  a  rich  world  round  thee — mighty  shades 
Weaving  their  gorgeous  tracery  o'er  thy  head, 
With  the  light  melting  through  their  high  arcades, 
As  through  a  pillared  cloister's  ;  but  the  dead 
Sleep  not  beneath ;  nor  doth  the  sunbeam  pass 
To  marble  shrines  through  rainbow-tinted  glass; 
Yet  thou,  by  fount  and  forest-murmur  led 
To  worship,  thou  art  blest !  to  thee  is  shown 
Earth  in  her  holy  pomp,  decked  for  her  God  alone. 


PART    SECOND. 
"  Wie  diese  treue  liebe  seele 
Von  ihrem  Glauben  Voll, 

Der  ganz  allein 

Ihr  selig  machend  ist,  sich  heilig  quaFe, 
Das  sic  den  liebsten  Mann  verloren  halten  soil. 

FAUST. 

"  I  never  shall  smile  more — but  all  my  days 
Walk  with  still  footsteps  and  with  humble  eyes, 
An  everlasting  hymn  within  my  soul." 

WILSOH. 

I. 

BRING  me  the  sounding  of  the  torrent-water, 
With  yet  a  nearer  swell !     Fresh  breeze,  awake  ! 
And  river,  darkening  ne'er  with  hues  of  slaughter 
Thy  wave's  pure  silvery  green, — and  shining  lake, 
Spread  far  before  my  cabin,  with  thy  zone 
Of  ancient  woods,  ye  chainless  things  and  lone  ! 
Send  voices  through  the  forest  aisles,  and  make 
Glad  music  round  me,  that  my  soul  may  dare, 
Cheered  by  such  tones,  to  look  back  on  a  dungeon's  air! 

ir. 

O  Indian  hunter  of  the  desert's  race  ! 
That  with  the  spear  at  times,  or  bended  bow, 
Dost  cross  my  footsteps  in  thy  fiery  chase 
Of  the  swift  elk  or  blue  hill's  flying  roe  ; 
Thou  that  beside  the  red  night-fire  thou  lieapest, 
Beneath  the  cedars  and  the  star-light  sleepest, 
Thou  know'st  not,  wanderer — never  may'st  thou  know  l-» 
Of  the  dark  holds  wherewith  man  cumbers  earth, 
To  shut  from  human  eyes  the  dancing  seasons'  mirth. 


•There,  fettered  down  from  day,  to  think  the  while 
How  bright  in  heaven  the  festal  sun  is  glowing, 
Making  earth's  loneliest  places,  with  his  smile 
Flush  like  the  rose  ;  and  how  the  streams  are  flowing 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY.  47 


With  sudden  sparkles  through  the  shadowy  grass, 
And  water-flowers,  all  trembling  as  they  pass  ; 
And  how  the  rich,  dark  summer  trees  are  bowing 
With  their  full  foliage  :  this  to  know,  and  pine, 
Bound  unto  midnight's  heart,  seems  a  stern  lot — 'twas  mine  I 


Wherefore  was  this  ?     Because  my  soul  had  drawn 
Light  from  the  Book  whose  words  are  graved  in  light  I 
There,  at  its  well-head,  had  I  found  the  dawn, 
And  day,  and  noop  of  freedom:  but  too  bright 
It  shines  on  that  which  man  to  man  hath  given, 
And  called  the  truth — the  very  truth,  from  heaven  ; 
And  therefore  seeks  he  in  his  brother's  sight 
To  cast  the  mote ;  and  therefore  strives  to  bind, 
With  his  strong  chains,  to  earth 'what  is  not  earth's — the  mind 

v. 

It  is  a  weary  and  a  bitter  task 
Back  from  the  lip  the  burning  word  to  keep, 
And  to  shut  out  heaven's  air  with  falsehood's  mask, 
And  in  the  dark  urn  of  the  soul  to  heap 
Indignant  feelings — making  e'en  of  thought 
A  buried  treasure,  which  may  but  be  sought 
When  shadows  are  abroad — and  night — and  sleep. 
I  might  not  brook  it  long — and  thus  was  thrown 
Int»  that  grave-like  cell,  to  wither  there  alone. 


And  I,  a  child  of  danger,  whose  delights 
Were  on  dark  hills  and  many-sounding  seas— 
I,  that  amidst  the  Cordillera  heights 
Had  given  Castilian  banners  to  the  breeze, 
And  the  full  circle  of  the  rainbow  seen 
There,  on  the  snows ;  and  in  my  country  been 
A  mountain  wanderer,  from  the  Pyrenees 
To  the  Morena  crags — how  left  I  not 
Life,  or  the  soul's  life,  quenched  on  that  sepulchral  spot  ? 

VII. 

Because  Thou  didst  not  leave  me,  O  my  God ! 
Thou  wert  with  those  that  bore  the  truth  of  old 
Into  the  deserts  from  the  oppressor's  rod, 
And  made  the  caverns  of  the  rock  their  fold  ; 
And  in  the  hidden  chamber  of  the  dead, 
Our  guiding  lamp  with  fire  immortal  fed  ; 
And  met  when  stars  met,  by  their  beams  to  hold 
The  free  heart's  communing  with  Thee, — and  Thou 
Wert  in  the  midst,  felt,  owned — the  Strengthcner  then  as  n«w ! 


48  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY 


Yet  once  I  sank.     Alas  !  man's  wavering  mind  ? 
Wherefore  and  whence  the  gusts  that  o'er  it  blow  ? 
How  they  bear  with  them,  floating  uncombined, 
The  shadows  of  the  past,  that  come  and  go, 
As  o'er  the  deep  the  old  long-buried  things 
Which  a  storm's  working  to  the  surface  brings  ! 
Is  the  reed  shaken, — and  must  we  be  so, 
With  every  wind  ?     So,  Father  !  must  we  be, 
Till  we  can  fix  undimmed  our  steadfast  eyes  on  Thee. 
IX. 

Once  my  soul  died  within  me.     What  had  thrown 
That  sickness  o'er  it  ?     Even  a  passing  thought 
Of  a  clear  spring,  whose  side,  with  flowers  o'crgrown, 
Fondly  and  oft  my  boyish  steps  had  sought  I 
Perchance  the  damp  roof's  water-drops  that  fell 
Just  then,  low  tinkling  through  my  vaulted  cell, 
Intensely  heard  amidst  the  stillness,  caught 
Some  tone  from  memory,  of  the  music,  welling 
Ever  with  that  fresh  rill,  from  its  deep  rocky  dwelling. 

X. 

But  so  my  spirit's  fevered  longings  wrought, 
Wakenipg,  it  might  be,  to  the  faint,  sad  sound, 
That  from  the  darkness  of  the  walls  they  brought 
A  loved  scene  round  me,  visibly  around. 
Yes  !  kindling,  spreading,  brightening,  hue  by  hue, 
Like  stars  from  midnight,  through  the  gloom,  it  grew, 
That  haunt  of  youth,  hope,  manhood  ! — till  the  bound 
Of  my  shut  cavern  seemed  dissolved,  and  I 
Girt  by  the  solemn  hills  and  burning  pomp  of  sky. 


I  looked — and  lo !  the  clear,  broad  river  flowing 
Past  the  old  Moorish  ruin  on  the  steep, 
The  lone  tower  dark  against  a  heaven  all  glowing, 
Like  seas  of  glass  and  fire — I  saw  the  sweep 
Of  glorious  woods  far  down  the  mountain  side, 
And  their  still  shadows  in  the  gleaming  tide, 
And  the  red  evening  on  its  waves  asleep; 
And  midst  the  scene — oh  !  more  than  all — there  smiled 
My  child's  fair  face,  and  hers,  the  mother  of  my  child  ! 


With  their  soft  eyes  of  love  and  gladness  raised 
Up  to  the  flushing  sky,  as  when  we  stood 
Last  by  that  river,  and  in  silence  gazed 
On  the  rich  world  of  sunset.     But  a  flood 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY.  49 


Of  sadden  tenderness  my  soul  oppressed  ; 
And  I  rushed  forward,  with  a  yearning  breast, 
To  clasp — alas  ! — a  vision  !     Wave  and  wood, 
And  gentle  faces,  lifted  in  the  light 
Of  day's  last  hectic  blush,  all  melted  from  my  sight. 


Then  darkness  ! — oh  !  the  unutterable  gloom 
That  seemed  as  narrowing  round  me.  making  less 
And  less  my  dungeon,  when,  with  all  its  bloom, 
That  bright  dream  vanished  from  my  loneliness! 
It  floated  off,  the  beautiful !  yet  left 
Such  deep  thirst  in  my  soul,  that  thus  bereft, 
I  lay  down,  sick  with  passion's  vain  excess, 
And  prayed  to  die.     How  oft  would  sorrow  weep 
Her  weariness  to  death,  if  he  might  come  like  sleep ! 


But  I  was  roused — and  how  ?     It  is  no  tale, 
Even  midst  thy  shades,  thou  wilderness  !  to  tell. 
I  would  not  have  my  boy's  young  cheek  made  pale, 
Nor  haunt  his  sunny  rest  with  what  befell 
In  that  drear  prison-house.     His  eye  must  grow 
More  dark  with  thought,  more  earnest  his  fair  brow, 
More  high  his  heart  in  youthful  strength  must  swell  j 
So  shall  it  fitly  burn  when  all  is  told  : 
Let  childhood's  radiant  mist  the  free  child  yet  enfold. 


It  is  enough  that  through  such  heavy  hours 
As  wring  us  by  our  fellowship  of  clay, 
I  lived,  and  undegraded.     We  have  powers 
To  snatch  the  oppressor's  bitter  joy  away ! 
Shrill  the  wild  Indian  for  his  savage  fame 
Laugh  and  expire,  and  shall  not  Truth's  high  name 
Bear  up  her  martyrs  with  all-conquering  sway  ? 
It  is  enough  that  torture  may  be  vain  : 
I  had  seen  Alvar  die — the  strife  was  won  from  Pain. 


And  faint  not,  heart  of  man  !     Though  years  wane  slow, 
There  have  been  those  that  from  the  deepest  caves, 
And  cells  of  night,  and  fastnesses  below 
The  stormy  dashing  of  the  ocean  waves, 
Down,  farther  down  than  gold  lies  hid,  have  nursed 
A  quenchless  hope,  and  watched  their  time,  and  burst 
On  the  bright  day,  like  wakeners  from  the  graves  ! 
I  was  of  such  at  last ! — unchained  I  trode 
This  green  earth,  taking  back  my  freedom  from  my  God  I 


5 o  THE  FOREST  SANC TUAK  Y. 


XVII. 

That  was  an  hour  to  send  its  fadeless  trace 
Down  life's  far-sweeping  tide !     A  dim,  wild  night 
Like  sorrow,  hung  upon  the  soft  moon's  face, 
Yet  how  my  heart  leaped  in  her  blessed  light ! 
The  shepherd's  light — the  sailor's  on  the  sea — 
The  hunter's  homeward  from  the  mountains  free, 
Where  its  lone  smile  makes  tremulously  bright 
The  thousand  streams  ! — I  could  but  gaze  through  tears. 
Oh  !  what  a  sight  is  heaven,  thus  first  beheld  for  years! 


The  rolling  clouds  ! — they  have  the  whole  blue  space 
Above  to  sail  in — all  the  dome  of  sky ! 
My  soul  shot  with  them  in  their  breezy  race 
O'er  star  and  gloom  ;  but  I  had  yet  to  fly, 
As  flies  the  hunted  wolf.     A  secret  spot 
And  strange,  I  knew — the  sunbeam  knew  it  not, — 
Wildest  of  all  the  savage  glens  that  lie 
In  far  sierras,  hiding  their  deep  springs, 
And  traversed  but  by  storms,  or  sounding  eagles'  wings. 


Ay,  and  I  met  the  storm  there  !     I  had  gained 
The  covert's  heart  with  swift  and  stealthy  tread: 
A  moan  went  past  me,  and  the  dark  trees  rained 
Their  autumn  foliage  rustling  on  my  head  ; 
A  moan — a  hollow  gust — and  there  I  stood 
Girt  with  majestic  night,  and  ancient  wood, 
And  foaming  water. — Thither  might  have  fled 
The  mountain  Christian  with  his  faith  of  yore, 
When  Afric's  tambour  shook  the  ringing  western  shore  I 

XX. 

But  through  the  black  ravine  the  storm  came  swelling: 
— Mighty  thou  art  amidst  the  hills,  thou  blast ! 
In  thy  lone  course  the  kingly  cedars  felling, 
Like  plumes  upon  the  path  of  battle  cast ! 
A  rent  oak  thundered  down  beside  my  cave, 
Booming  it  rushed,  as  booms  a  deep  sea  wave  : 
A  falcon  soared ;  a  startled  wild-deer  passed ; 
A  far-off  bell  tolled  faintly  through  the  roar. 
How  my  glad  spirit  swept  forth  with  the  winds  once  more  f 


And  with  the  arrowy  lightnings  ! — for  they  flashed, 
Smiting  the  branches  in  their  fitful  play, 
And  brightly  shivering  where  the  torrents  dashed 
Up,  even  to  crag  and  eagle's  nest,  their  spray  ! 

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THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


And  there  to  stand  amidst  the  pealing  strife, 
The  strong  pines  groaning  with  tempestuous  life, 
And  all  the  mountain-voices  on  their  way, — 
Was  it  not  joy?     'Twas  joy  in  rushing  might, 
After  those  years  that  wove  but  one  long  dead  of  night  I 


There  came  a  softer  hour,  a  lovelier  moon, 
And  lit  me  to  my  home  of  youth  again, 
Through  the  dim  chestnut  shade,  where  oft  at  noon, 
By  the  fount's  flashing  burst,  my  head  had  lain 
In  gentle  sleep.     But  now  I  passed  as  one 
That  may  not  pause  where  wood-streams  whispering  run, 
Or  light  sprays  tremble  to  a  bird's  wild  strain ; 
Because  the  avenger's  voice  is  in  the  wind, 
The  foe's  quick,  rustling  step  close  on  the  leaves  behind. 


My  home  of  youth  !     Oh  !  if  indeed  to  part 
With  the  soul's  loved  ones  be  a  mournful  thing, 
When  we  go  forth  in  buoyancy  of  heart, 
And  bearing  all  the  glories  of  our  spring 
For  life  to  breathe  on, — is  it  less  to  meet, 
When  these  are  faded  ? — who  shall  call  it  sweet  I 
Even  though  love's  mingling  tears  may  haply  bring 
Balm  as  they  fall,  too  well  their  heavy  showers 
Teach  us  how  much  is  lost  of  all  that  once  was  ours : 

XXIV. 

Not  by  the  sunshine,  with  its  golden  glow, 
Nor  the  green  earth,  nor  yet  the  laughing  sky, 
Nor  the  fair  flower-scents,  as  they  come  and  go 
In  the  soft  air,  like  music  wandering  by ; 
— Oh  !  not  by  these,  the  unfailing,  are  we  taught 
How  time  and  sorrow  on  our  frames  have  wrought ; 
But  by  the  saddened  eye,  the  darkened  brow 
Of  kindred  aspects,  and  the  long  dim  gaze, 
Which  tell  us  we  are  changed — how  changed  from  other  days  '• 


Before  my  father,  in  my  place  of  birth, 
I  stood  an  alien.     On  the  very  floor 
Which  oft  had  trembled  to  my  boyish  mirth, 
The  love  that  reared  me,  knew  my  face  no  more  1 
There  hung  the  antique  armor,  helm  and  crest, 
Whose  every  stain  woke  childhood  in  my  breast ; 
There  drooped  the  banner,  with  the  marks  it  bore 
Of  Paynim  spears;  and  I.  the  worn  in  frame 
And  heart,  what  there  was  I ! — another  and  the  same  1 


52  THE  FOREST  SANCTUAK  Y. 

xxvi. 

Then  bounded  in  a  boy,  with  clear,  dark  eye — 
How  should  he  know  his  father  ?     When  we  parted, 
From  the  soft  cloud  which  mantles  infancy, 
His  soul,  just  wakening  into  wonder,  darted 
Its  first  looks  round.     Him  followed  one,  the  bride, 
Of  my  young  days,  the  wife  how  loved  and  tried ! 
Her  glance  met  mine — I  could  not  speak — she  started 
With  a  bewildered  gaze — until  there  came 
Tears  to  my  burning  eyes,  and  from  my  lips  her  name. 


She  knew  me  then  !     I  murmured  "  Leonor  /" 
And  her  heart  answered  !     Oh !  the  voice  is  known 
First  from  all  else,  and  swiftest  to  restore 
Love's  buried  images,  with  one  low  tone 
That  strikes  like  lightning,  when  the  cheek  is  faded, 
And  the  brow  heavily  with  thought  o'ershaded, 
And  all  the  brightness  from  the  aspect  gone  ! 
— Upon  my  breast  she  sunk,  when  doubt  was  fled, 
Weeping  as  those  may  weep,  that  meet  in  woe  and  dread. 

XXVIII. 

For  there  we  might  not  rest.     Alas !  to  leave 
Those  native  towers,  and  know  that  they  must  fall 
By  slow  decay,  and  none  remain  to  grieve 
When  the  weeds  clustered  on  the  lonely  wall  ! 
We  were  the  last — my  boy  and  I — the  last 
Of  a  long  line  which  brightly  thence  had  passed! 
My  father  blessed  me  as  I  left  his  hall — 
With  his  deep  tones  and  sweet,  though  full  of  years, 
He  blessed  me  there,  and  bathed  my  child's  young  head  with  tears, 


I  had  brought  sorrow  on  his  gray  hairs  down, 
And  cast  the  darkness  of  my  branded  name 
(For  so  he  deemed  it)  on  the  clear  renown, 
My  own  ancestral  heritage  of  fame. 
And  yet  he  blessed  me  !     Father !  if  the  dust 
Lie  on  those  lips  benign,  my  spirit's  trust, 
Is  to  behold  thee  yet,  where  grief  and  shame 
Dim  the  bright  day  no  more ;  and  thou  will  know 
That  not  through  guilt  thy  son  thus  bowed  thine  age  with  woe\ 


And  thou,  my  Leonor!  that  unrepining, 

If  sad  in  soul,  didst  quit  all  else  for  me, 

When  stars,  the  stars  that  earliest  rise,  are  shining, 

How  their  soft  glance  unseals  each  thought  of  thee  ! 

For  on  our  flighl  they  smiled  ;  their  dewy  rays, 

Through  the  last  olives,  lit  thy  tearful  gaze 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUAR  Y.  5  j 

Back  to  the  home  we  never  more  might  see. 
So  passed  we  on,  like  earth's  first  exiles,  turning 
Fond  looks  where  hung  the  sword  above  their  Eden  burning. 


It  was  a  woe  to  say,  "  Farewell,  my  Spain  ! 
The  sunny  and  the  vintage  land,  farewell ! " 
— I  could  have  died  upon  the  battle-plain 
For  thee,  my  country  !  but  I  might  not  dwell 
In  thy  sweet  vales,  at  peace      The  voice  of  song 
Breathes,  with  the  myrtle  scent,  thy  hills  along  : 
The  citron's  glow  is  caught  from  shade  and  dell : 
But  what  are  these  ?  upon  thy  flowery  sod 
I  might  not  kneel,  and  pour  my  free  thoughts  out  to  God ! 

xxxrr. 

O'er  the  blue  deep  I  fled,  the  chainless  deep ! 
Strange  heart  of  man  !  that  e'en  midst  woe  swells  high, 
When  through  the  foam  he  sees  his  proud  bark  sweet, 
Flinging  out  joyous  gleams  to  wave  and  sky ! 
Yes  !  it  swells  high,  whate'er  he  leaves  behind, 
His  spirit  rises  with  the  rising  win'4  •, 
For,  wedded  to  the  far  futurity, 
On,  on,  it  bears  him  ever,  and  the  main 
Seems  rushing,  like  his  hope,  some  happier  shore  to  gain. 

XXXIII. 

Not  thus  is  woman.     Closely  her  still  heart 
Doth  twine  itself  with  e'en  each  lifeless  thing 
Which,  long  remembered,  seemed  to  bear  its  part 
In  her  calm  joys.     Forever  would  she  cling, 
A  brooding  dove,  to  that  sole  spot  of  earth 
Where  she  hath  loved,  and  given  her  children  birth, 
And  heard  their  first  sweet  voices.     There  may  Spring 
Array  no  path,  renew  no  flower,  no  leaf, 
But  hath  its  breath  of  home,  its  claim  to  farewell  grief. 

XXIV. 

I  looked  on  Leonor, — and  if  there  seemed 
A  cloud  of  more  than  pensiveness  to  rise 
In  the  faint  smiles  that  o'er  her  features  gleamed, 
And  the  soft  darkness  of  her  serious  eyes, 
Misty  with  tender  gloom,  I  called  it  nought, 
But  the  fond  exile's  pang,  a  lingering  thought 
Of  her  own  vale,  with  all  its  melodies 
And  living  light  of  streams.     Her  soul  would  rest 
Beneath  your  shades,  I  said,  bowers  of  the  gorgeous  West* 

xxxv. 

Oh,  could  we  live  in  visions !  could  we  hold 
Delusion  faster,  longer,  to  our  breast, 
When  it  shuts  from  us,  with  its  mantle's  fold, 


54  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 

That  which  we  see  not,  and  are  therefore  blest ! 

But  they,  our  loved  and  loving — they  to  whom 

We  have  spread  out  our  souls  in  joy  and  gloom, 

Their  looks  and  accents  unto  ours  addressed, 

Have  been  a  language  of  familiar  tone 

Too  long  to  breathe,  at  last,  dark  sayings  and  unknown. 


I  told  my  heart,  'twas  but  the  exile's  woe 
Which  Dressed  on  that  sweet  bosom  ;  I  deceived 
My  heart  but  half ;  a  whisper,  faint  and  low, 
Haunting  it  ever,  and  at  times  believed, 
Spoke  of  some  deeper  cause      How  oft  we  seem 
Like  those  that  dream,  and  know  the  while  they  dream— 
Midst  the  soft  falls  of  airy  voices  grieved 
And  troubled,  while  bright  phantoms  round  them  play, 
By  a  dim  sense  that  all  will  float  and  fade  away  ! 

xxxvn. 

Yet,  as  if  chasing  joy,  I  wooed  the  breeze 
To  speed  me  onward  with  the  wings  of  morn. 
Oh  !  far  amidst  the  solitary  seas, 
Which  were  not  made  for  man  what  man  hath  borne, 
Answering  their  moan  with  his  !  what  thou  didst  bear, 
My  lost  and  loveliest !  while  that  secret  care 
Grew  terror,  and  thy  gentle  spirit,  worn 
By  its  Ju'J  brooding  weight,  gave  way  at  last, 
Beholding  me  as  one  from  hope  forever  cast ! 

XXXVIII. 

For  unto  thee,  as  through  all  change,  revealed 
Mine  inward  being  lay.     In  other  eyes 
I  had  to  bow  me  yet,  and  make  a  shield, 
To  fence  my  burning  bosom,  of  disguise  ; 
By  the  still  hope  sustained,  ere  long  to  win 
Some  sanctuary,  whose  green  retreats  within 
My  thoughts  unfettered  to  their  source  might  rise, 
Like  songs  and  scents  of  morn.     But  thou  didst  look 
Through  all  my  soul,  and  thine  e'en  unto  fainting  shook. 

xxxix. 

Fallen,  fallen,  I  seemed — yet,  oh  !  not  less  beloved, 
Though  from  thy  love  was  plucked  the  early  pride, 
And  harshly  by  a  gloomy  faith  reproved, 

And  seared  with  shame  !     Though  each  young  flower  had  died, 
There  was  the  root, — strong  living,  not  the  less 
That  all  it  yielded  now  was  bitterness  ; 
Yet  still  such  love  as  quits  not  misery's  side, 
Nor  drops  from  guilt  its  ivy-like  embrace, 
Nor   turns  away  from  death's  its  pale  heroic  face. 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY.  55 


XL. 

Yes  !  them  hadst  followed  me  through  fear  and  flight ! 
Thou  wouldst  have  followed  had  my  pathway  led 
E'en  to  the  scaffold ;  had  the  flashing  light 
Of  the  raised  axe  made  strong  men  shrink  with  dread, 
Thou,  midst  the  hush  of  thousands,  wouldst  have  been 
With  thy  clasped  hands  beside  me  kneeling  seen, 
And  meekly  bowing  to  the  shame  thy  head — 
The  shame! — oh!  making  beautiful  to  view 
The  might  of  human  love — fair  thing  !  so  bravely  true  1 

XLI. 

There  was  thine  agony — to  love  so  well 
Where  fear  made  love  life's  chastener.     Heretotore, 
Whate'er  of  earth's  disquiet  round  thee  fell, 
Thy  soul,  o'erpassing  its  dim  bounds,  could  soar 
Away  to  sunshine,  and  thy  clear  eye  speak 
Most  of  the  skies  when  grief  most  touched  -thy  cheek. 
Now,  that  far  brightness  faded,  never  more 
Could  thou  lift  heavenwards  for  its  hope  thy  heart, 
Since  at  heaven's  gate  it  seemed  that  thou  and  I  must  parl 


Alas  !  and  life  hath  moments  when  a  glance — 
(If  thought  to  sudden  watchfulness  be  stirred), 
A  flush — a  fading  of  the  cheek,  perchance — 
A  word — less,  less — the  cadence  of  a  word, 
Lets  in  our  gaze  the  mind's  dim  vale  beneath, 
Thence  to  bring  haply  knowledge  fraught  with  death  ! 
Even  thus,  what  never  from  thy  lip  was  heard 
Broke  on  my  soul.     I  knew  that  in  thy  sight 
I  stood,  howe'er  beloved,  a  recreant  from  the  light. 


Thy  sad,  sweet  hymn,  at  eve,  the  seas  along, — 
Oh  I  the  deep  soul  it  breathed  ! — the  love,  the  woe, 
The  fervor,  poured  in  that  full  gush  of  song, 
As  it  went  floating  through  the  fiery  glow 
Of  the  rich  sunset  ! — bringing  thoughts  of  Spain, 
With  all  their  vesper  voices,  o'er  the  main, 
Which  seemed  responsive  in  its  murmuring  flow. 
"  Ave  sanctissima  !  " — how  oft  that  lay 
Hath  melted  from  my  heart  the  martyr  strength  away  I 

Ave,  sanctissima! 
'Tis  nightfall  on  the  sea ; 

Ora  pro  nobis ! 
Our  souls  rise  to  thee  1 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


Watch  us,  while  shadows  lie 
O'er  the  dim  waters  spread  ; 

Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh  — 
Thine  too  hath  bled  ! 

Thou  that  hast  looked  on  death. 

Aid  us  when  death  is  near  ! 
Whisper  of  heaven  to  faith  ; 

Sweet  Mother,  hear! 

Ora  pro  nobis  ! 
The  wave  must  rock  our  sleep, 

Ora,  Mater,  ora! 
Thou  star  of  the  deep  ! 

XLIV. 

Ora  fro  nobis,  Mater!"  —  What  a  spell 
Was  in  those  notes,  with  day's  last  glory  dying 
On  the  flushed  waters  —  seemed  they  not  to  swell 
From  the  far  dust  wherein  my  sires  were  lying 
With  crucifix  and  sword  ?     Oh  !  yet  how  clear 
Comes  their  reproachful  sweetness  to  mine  ear  I 
"  Ora  "  —  with  all  the  purple  waves  replying, 
All  my  youth's  visions  rising  in  the  strain  — 
\.nd  I  had  thought  it  much  to  bear  the  rack  and  chain  1 

XLV. 

Torture  !  the  sorrow  of  affection's  eye, 
Fixing  its  meekness  on  the  spirit's  core, 
Deeper,  and  teaching  more  of  agony, 
May  pierce  than  many  swords  !  —  and  this  I  bore 
With  a  mute  pang.     Since  I  had  vainly  striven 
From  its  free  springs  to  pour  the  truth  of  heaven 
Into  thy  trembling  soul,  my  Leonor  ! 
Silence  rose  up  where  hearts  no  hope  could  share  : 
Alas  !  for  those  that  love,  and  may  not  blend  in  prayer  ! 
XLVI. 

We  could  not  pray  together  midst  the  deep, 
Which,  like  a  floor  of  sapphire,  round  us  lay, 
Through  days  of  splendor,  nights  too  bright  for  s»eep, 
Soft,  solemn,  holy  !     We  were  on  our  way 
Unto  the  mighty  Cordillera  land, 
With  men  whom  tales  of  that  world's  golden  strand 
Had  lured  to  leave  their  vines.     Oh  !  who  shall  say 
What  thoughts  rose  in  us,  when  the  tropic  sky 
Touched  all  its  molten  seas  with  sunset's  alchemy! 

XLVII. 

Thoughts  no  more  mingled  !     Then  came  night  —  the  intense 

Dark  blue  —  the  burning  stars  !     I  saw  thee  shine 

Once  more  in  thy  serene  magnificence, 

O  Southern  Cross!  as  when  thy  radiant  sign 


77/7?  FOKF.S T  SAA'C TUAR  Y.  57 

I  irst  drew  my  gaze  of  youth.     No,  not  as  then  ; 
I  had  been  striken  by  the  darts  of  men 
Since  those  fresh  days;  and  now  thy  light  divine 
Looked  on  mine  anguish,  while  within  me  strove 
The  still  small  voice  against  the  might  of  suffering  love. 

XLVIII, 

But  thou,  the  clear,  the  glorious  !  thou  wert  pouring 
Brilliance  and  joy  upon  the  crystal  wave, 
"While  she  that  met  thy  ray  with  eyes  adoring, 
Stood  in  the  lengthening  shadow  of  the  grave  I 
Alas!    I  watched  her  dark  religious  glance, 
As  it  still  sought  thee  through  the  heaven's  expanse, 
Bright  Cross !  and  knew  that  I  watched  what  gave 
But  passing  lustre — shrouded  soon  to  be — 
A  soft  light  found  no  more — no  more  on  earth  or  sea  ! 


I  knew  not  all — yet  something  of  unrest 
Sat  on  my  heart.     Wake,  ocean-wind  !  I  said  ; 
\Vaft  us  to  land,  in  leafy  freshness  drest, 
Where,  through  rich  clouds  of  foliage  o'er  her  head, 
Sweet  clay  may  steal,  and  rills  unseen  go  by, 
Like  singing  voices,  and  the  green  earth  lie 
Starry  with  flowers,  beneath  her  graceful  tread  ! 
But  the  calm  bound  us  midst  the  glassy  main : 
Ne'er  was  her  step  to  bend  earth's  living  flowers  again. 


Yes !  as  if  heaven  upon  the  waves  were  sleeping, 
Vexing  my  soul  with  quiet,  there  they  lay, 
All  moveless,  through  their  blue  transparence  keeping 
The  shadows  of  our  sails,  from  day  to  day ; 
While  she oh  !  strongest  is  the  strong  heart's  woe—- 
And yet  I  live!  I  feel  the  sunshine's  glow — 
And  I  am  he  that  looked,  and  saw  decay 
Steal  o'er  the  fair  of  earth,  the  adored  too  much ! — 
It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  love  what  death  may  touch. 

LI. 

A  fearful  thing  that  love  and  death  may  dwell 
In  the  same  world !     She  faded  on — and  I, 
Blind  to  the  last,  there  needed  death  to  tell 
My  trusting  soul  that  she  could  fade  to  die  ! 
Yet,  ere  she  parted,  I  had  marked  a  change  ; 
But  it  breathed  hope — 'twas  ber.utiful,  though  strange, 
Something  of  gladness  in  the  melody 
Of  her  low  voice,  and  in  her  words  a  flight 
Of  airy  thought — alas  !  too  perilously  bright! 


$8  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


LIT. 

And  a  clear  sparkle  in  her  glance,  yet  wild, 
And  quick,  and  eager,  like  the  flashing  gaze 
Of  some  all-wondering  and  awakening  child, 
That  first  the  glories  of  the  earth  surveys. 
How  could  it  thus  deceive  me?     She  had  worn 
Around  her,  like  the  dewy  mists  of  morn, 
A  pensive  tenderness  through  happiest  days  ; 
And  a  soft  world  of  dreams  had  seemed  to  lie 
Still  in  her  dark,  and  deep,  and  spiritual  eye. 

LIII. 

And  I  could  hope  in  that  strange  fire  ! — she  died, 
The  died,  with  all  its  lustre  on  her  mien  ! 
The  day  was  melting  from  the  waters  wide, 
And  through  its  long  bright  hours  her  thoughts  had  been, 
It  seemed,  with  restless  and  unwonted  yearning, 
To  Spain's  blue  skies  and  dark  sierras  turning  : 
For  her  fond  words  were  all  of  vintage-scene. 
And  flowering  myrtle,  and  sweet  citron's  breath  ; 
Oh !   with  what  vivid  hues  life  comes  back  oft  on  death  I 


And  from  her  lips  the  mountain-songs  of  old, 
In  wild,  faint  snatches,  fitfully  had  sprung  ; 
Songs  of  the  orange  bower,  the  Moorish  hold, 
The  "  Rio  verde"  on  her  soul  that  hung, 
And  thence  flowed  forth.     But  now  the  sun  was  low, 
And  watching  by  my  side  its  last  red  glow, 
That  ever  stills  the  heart,  once  more  she  sung 
Her  own  soft  "  Ora,  Mater  !  "  and  the  sound 
Was  e'en  like  love's  farewell — so  mournfully  profound. 


The  boy  had  dropped  to  slumber  at  our  feet; 
"  And  I  have  lulled  him  to  his  smiling  rest 
Once  more  ! "  she  said.     I  raised  him — it  was  sweet, 
Yet  sad,  to  see  the  perfect  calm,  which  blessed 
His  look  that  hour  :  for  now  her  voice  grew  weak, 
And  on  the  flowery  crimson  of  his  cheek, 
With  her  white  lips,  a  long,  long  kiss  she  pressed, 
Yet  light,  to  wake  him  not.     Then  sank  her  head 
Against  my  bursting  heart.     What  did  I  clasp  ? — the  dead  I 

LVI. 

I  called !    To  call  what  answers  not  our  cries — 
By  what  we  loved  to  stand  unseen,  unheard — 
With  the  loud  passion  of  our  tears  and  sighs, 
To  see  but  some  cold  glittering  ringlet  stirred  ; 
And  in  the  quenched  eye's  fixedness  to  gaze, 
All  vainly  searching  for  the  parted  rays — 


THE  FOREST  SAKCTUAR  Y.  59 

This  is  what  waits  us  \     Dead  ! — with  that  chill  word 
To  link  our  bosom-names  !     For  this  we  pour 
<\ir  souls  upon  the  dust — nor  tremble  to  adore  ! 

LVII. 

But  the  true  parting  came  ! — I  looked  my  last 
On  the  sad  beauty  of  that  slumbering  face  : 
How  could  1  think  the  lovely  spirit  passed, 
Which  there  had  left  so  tenderly  its  trace  ? 
Yet  2i  dim  awfulness  was  on  the  brow — 
No !  not  like  sleep  to  look  upon  art  tluu, 
Death,  Death  !     She  lay  a  thing  for  earth's  embrace, 
To  cover  with  spring-wreaths.     For  earth's  ? — the  wave- 
That  gives  the  bier  no  flowers,  makes  moan  above  her  grave  J 


On  the  mid-seas  a  knell  ! — for  man  was  there, 
Anguish  and  love — the  mourner  with  his  dead ! 
A  long,  low-rolling  knell — a  voice  of  prayer — 
Dark  glassy  waters,  like  a  desert  spread — 
And  the  pale-shining  Southern  Cross  on  high, 
Its  faint  stars  fading  from  a  solemn  sky, 
Where  mighty  clouds  before  the  dawn  grew  red :       _ 
Were  these  things  round  me  ?    Such  o'er  memory  sweep 
Wildly,  when  ought  brings  back  that  burial  of  the  deep. 

LIX. 

Then  the  broad  lonely  sunrise ! — and  the  plash 
Into  the  sounding  waves  I  Around  her  head 
They  parted,  with  a  glancing  moment's  flash, 
Then  shut — and  all  was  still.     And  now  thy  bed 
Is  of  their  secrets,  gentlest  Leonor  ! 
Once  fairest  of  young  brides  ! — and  never  mor" 
Loved  as  thou  wert,  may  human  tear  be  shed 
Above  thy  rest !     No  mark  tlie  proud  seas  keep, 
To  show  where  he  that  wept  may  pause  again  to  weep ! 

LX. 

So  the  depths  took  thee !     Oh  !  the  sullen  sense 
Of  desolation  in  that  hour  compressed  ! 
Dust  going  down,  a  speck,  amidst  the  immense 
And  gloomy  waters,  leaving  on  their  breast 
The  trace  a  weed  might  leave  there  !     Dust! — the  thing 
Which  to  the  heart  was  as  a  living  spring 
Of  joy,  with  fearfulness  of  love  possessed. 
Thus  sinking  !     Love,  joy,  fear,  all  crushed  to  this  — 
And  the  wide  heaven  so  far — so  fathomless  the  abyss  ! 

LXI. 

Where  the  line  sounds  not,  where  the  wrecks  lie  low, 
What  shall  wake  thence  the  dead  ?     Blest,  blest,  are  thtv 
That  earth  to  earth  intrust,  for  they  may  know 


60  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 

And  tend  the  dwelling  whence  the  slumberer's  clay 
Shall  rise  at  last ;  and  bid  the  yeung  flowers  bloom, 
That  waft  a  breath  of  hope  around  the  tomb ; 
And  kneel  upon  the  dewy  turf  to  pray ! 
But  thou,  what  cave  hath  dimly  chambered  thee  ? 
Vain  dreams ! — oh  !  art  thou  not  where  there  is  no  more  sea? 


The  wind  rose  free  and  singing  :  when  forever, 
O'er  that  sole  spot  of  all  the  watery  plain, 
I  could  have  bent  my  sight  with  fond  endeavor 
Down,  where  its  treasure  was,  its  glance  to  strain; 
Then  rose  the  reckless  wind  !     Before  our  prow 
The  white  foam  flashed — ay,  joyously,  and  thou 
Wert  left  with  all  the  solitary  main 
Around  thee — and  thy  beauty  in  my  heart, 
And  thy  meek,  sorrowing  love — oh  !  where  could  that  depart  ? 


I  will  not  speak  of  woe  ;  I  may  not  tell — 
Friend  tells  not  such  to  friends — the  thoughts  which  rent 
My  fainting  spirit,  when  its  wild  farewell 
Across  the  billows  to  thy  grave  was  sent, 
Thou,  there  most  lonely  !     He  that  sits  above, 
In  his  calm  glory,  will  forgive  the  love 
His  creatures  bear  each  other,  even  if  blent 
With  a  vain  worship  ;  for  its  close  is  dim 
Ever  with  grief  which  leads  the  wrung  soul  back  to  Him! 

LXIV. 

And  with  a  milder  pang  if  now  I  bear 
To  think  of  thee  in  thy  forsaken  rest, 
If  from  my  heart  be  lifted  the  despair, 
The  sharp  remorse  w.ith'  healing  influence  pressed, 
If  the  soft  eyes  that  visit  me  in  sleep 
Look  not  reproach,  though  still  they  seem  to  weep ; 
It  is  that  He  my  sacrifice  hath  blessed, 
And  filled  my  bosom,  through  its  inmost  cell, 
With  a  deep  chastening  sense  that  all  at  last  is  well. 


Yes  !  thou  art  now Oh  !  wherefore  doth  the  thought 

Of  the  wave  dashing  o'er  thy  long  bright  hair, 
The  sea-weed  into  its  dark  tresses  wrought, 
The  sand  thy  pillow — thou  that  wert  so  fair ! 
Come  o'er  me  still !     Earth,  earth  ! — it  is  the  hold 
Earth  ever  keeps  on  that  of  earthly  mould  ! 
But  thou  art  breathing  now  in  purer  air, 
I-well  believe,  and  freed  from  all  of  error, 
Which  blighted  here  the  root  of  thy  sweet  life  with  terror. 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY.  6 1 


And  if  the  love,  which  here  was  passing  tight, 
Went  with  what  died  not — oh  !  that  this  we  knew, 
But  this  ! — that  through  the  silence  of  the  night, 
Some  voice,  of  all  the  lost  ones  and  the  true, 
Would  speak,  and  say,  if  in  their  far  repose, 
We  are  yet  aught  of  what  we  were  to  those 
We  call  the  dead  1     Their  passionate  adieu, 
Was  it  but  breath,  to  perish  ?     Holier  trust 
Be  mine  ! — thy  love  is  there,  but  purified  from  dust  I 


A  thing  all  heavenly  ! — cleared  from  that  which  hung 
As  a  dim  cloud  between  us,  heart  and  mind  ! 
Loosed  from  the  fear,  the  grief,  whose  tendrils  flung 
A  chain  so  darkly  with  its  growth  entwined. 
This  is  my  hope  ! — though  when  the  sunset  fades, 
When  forests  rock  the  midnight  on  their  shades, 
When  tones  of  wail  are  in  the  rising  wind, 
Across  my  spirit  some  faint  doubt  may  sigh ; 
For  the  strong  hours  -will  sway  this  frail  mortality  ! 


We  have  been  wanderers  since  those  days  of  woe, 
Thy  boy  and  I !     As  wild  birds  tend  their  young, 
So  have  I  tended  him — my  bounding  roe  ! 
The  high  Peruvian  solitudes  among  ; 
And  o'er  the  Andes'  torrents  borne  his  form, 
Where  our  frail  bridge  had  quivered  "midst  the  storm 
But  there  the  war-notes  of  my  country  rung, 
And,  smitten  deep  of  heaven  and  man,  I  fled 
To  hide  in  shades  unpierced  a  marked  and  weary  head. 


But  he  went  on  in  gladness — that  fair  child  ! 
Save  when  at  times  his  bright  eye  seemed  to  dream 
And  his  young  lips,  which  then  no  longer  smiled, 
Asked  of  his  mother  !     That  was  but  a  gleam 
Of  memory,  fleeting  fast ;    and  then  his  play 
Through  the  wild  Llanos  cheered  again  our  way, 
And  by  the  mighty  Oronoco  stream, 
On  whose  lone  margin  we  have  heard  at  morn, 
From  the  mysterious  rocks,  the  sun  rise-music  borne 


So  like  a  spirit's  voice  !  a  harping  tone, 
Lovely,  yet  ominous  to  mortal  ear — 
Such  as  might  reach  us  from  a  world  unknown, 
Troubling  man's  heart  with  thrills  of  joy  and  fear ! 


62  THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


'Twas  sweet ! — yet  those  deep  southern  shades  oppressed 
My  soul  with  stillness,  like  the  calms  that  rest 
On  melancholy  waves:  I  sighed  to  hear 
Once  more  earth's  breezy  sounds,  her  foliage  fanned. 
And  turned  to  seek  the  wilds  of  the  red  hunter's  land. 

LXXI. 

And  we  have  won  a  bower  of  refuge  now, 
In  this  fresh  waste,  the  breath  of  whose^repose 
Hath  cooled,  like  dew,  the  fever  of  my  brow, 
And  whose  green  oaks  and  cedars  round  me  close 
As  temple  walls  and  pillars,  that  exclude 
Earth's  haunted  dreams  from  their  free  solitude  ; 
All,  save  the  image  and  the  thought  of  those 
Before  us  gone— our  loved  of  early  years, 
Gone  where  affection's  cup  hath  lost  the  taste  of  tears 


I  see  a  star — eve's  first-born  ! — in  whose  train 
Past  scenes,  words,  looks,  come  back.     The  arrowy  spire 
Of  the  lone  cypress,  as  of  wood-girt  fane, 
Rests  dark  and  still  amidst  a  heaven  of  fire  ; 
The  pine  gives  forth  its  odors,  and  the  lake 
Gleams  like  one  ruby,  and  the  soft  winds  wake 
Till  every  string  of  nature's  solemn  lyre 
Is  touched  to  answer  ;  its  most  secret  tone 
Drawn  from  each  tree,  for  each  hath  whispers  all  its  own. 

LXXI  1 1. 

And  hark !  another  murmur  on  the  air, 
Not  of  the  hidden  rills  or  quivering  shades  ! — 
That  is  the  cataract's,  which  the  breezes  bear, 
Filling  the  leafy  twilight  of  the  glades 
With  hollow  surge-like  sounds,  as  from  the  bed 
Of  the  blue,  mournful  seas,  that  keep  the  dead: 
But  they  are  far  i     The  low  sun  here  pervades 
Dim  forest  arches,  bathing  with  red  gold 
Their  stems,  till  each  is  made  a  marvel  to  behold. 


Gorgeous,  yet  full  of  gloom  !    In  such  an  hour 
The  vesper-melody  of  dying  bells 

Wanders  through  Spain,  from  each  gray  convent's  tower 
O'er  shining  rivers  poured  and  olive  dells, 
By  every  peasant  heard,  and  muleteer, 
And  hamlet,  round  my  home :  and  I  am  here, 
Living  again  through  all  my  life's  farewells, 
In  these  vast  woods,  where  farewell  ne'er  was  spoken, 
And  sole  I  lift  to  heaven  a  sad  heart — yet  unbroken  ! 


THE  FORES  T  SANCTUAR  Y.  63 


In  such  an  hour  are  told  the  hermit's  beads; 
With  the  white  sail  the  seaman's  hymn  floats  by 
Peace  be  with  all  !  whate'er  their  varying  creeds. 
With  all  that  send  up  holy  thoughts  on  high  I 
Come  to  me,  boy  !  by  Guadalquiver's  vines, 
By  every  stream  of  Spain,  as  day  declines, 
Man's  prayers  are  mingled  in  the  rosy  sky. 
\Vc,  too,  will  pray  ;  nor  yet  unheard,  my  child  ! 
Of  Him  whose  voice  ive  hear  at  eve  amidst  the  wild. 


At  eve  ?     Oh,  through  all  hours !     From  dark  dreams 
Awakening,  I  look  forth,  and  learn  the  might 
Of  solitude,  while  thou  art  breathing  soft, 
And  low,  my  loved  one  !  on  the  breast  of  night. 
1  look  forth  on  the  stars — the  shadowy 'sleep 
Of  forests — and  the  lake  whose  gloomy  deep 
Sends  up  red  sparkles  to  the  fire-flies'  light : 
A  lonely  world  ! — even  fearful  to  man's  thought, 
But  for  his  presence  felt,  whom  here  my  soul  hath  sough; 


THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


(The  events  with  which  the  following  tale  is  interwoven  are  related  in  the  Historia  de  las  Giier 
ras  Civilesde  Granada.  They  occurred  in  the  reign  of  Abo  Abdeli,  or  Abdali,  the  last  Moorish 
king  of  that  city,  called  by  the  Spaniards  El  Rey  Chico.  The  conquest  of  Granada  by  Ferdi- 
nand and  Isabella  is  said  by  some  historians  to  have  been  greatly  facilitated  by  the  Abencer- 
rages,  whose  defection  was  the  result  of  the  repeated  injuries  they  had  received  from  the  king, 
at  the  instigation  of  the  Zcgris.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  halls  of  the  Alhambra  is  pointed 
out  as  the  scene  where  so  many  of  the  former  celebrated  tribe  were  massacred  ;  and  it  still 
retains  their  name,  being  called  the  "  Sala  de  los  Abencerrages."  Many  of  the  most  interesting 
old  Spanish  ballads  relate  to  the  events  of  this  chivalrous  and  romantic  period.] 


"  Le  Maure  ne  se  venge  pas  parce  que  sa  colere  dure  encore,  mais  parce  que  la  vengeance 
seule  peut  ^carter  de  sa  tete  le  ppids  d'infamie  dont  il  est  accabld. — II  se  venge,  parce  qu'a  ses 
yeux  il  n'y  a  qu'une  ame  basse  qui  puisse  pardonner  les  affronts  ;  et  il  nourrit  sa  rancune,  parce 
que  s'il  la  sentoit  s'e'temdre,  il  croiroit  avec  elle,  avoir  perdu  une  vertu." 

SlSMONUL 

LONELY  and  still  are  now  thy  marble  halls, 

Thou  fair  Alhambra  !  there  the  feast  is  o'er  ; 
And  with  the  murmur  of  thy  fountain-falls, 

Blend  the  wild  tones  of  minstrelsy  no  more. 

Hushed  are  the  voices  that  in  years  gone  by 

Have  mourned,  exulted,  menaced,  through  thy  towers, 

Within  thy  pillared  courts  the  grass  waves  high, 
And  all  uncultured  bloom  thy  fairy  bowers. 

Unheeded  there  the  flowering  myrtle  blows, 
Through  tall  arcades  unmarked  the  sunbeam  smiles, 

And  many  a  tint  of  softened  brilliance  throws 
O'er  fretted  walls  and  shining  peristyles. 

And  well  might  Fancy  deem  thy  fabrics  lone, 

So  vast,  so  silent,  and  so  wildly  fair, 
Some  charmed  abode  of  beings  all  unknown, 

Powerful  and  /iewless,  children,  of  the  air. 

For  there  no  footstep  treads  the  enchanted  ground, 

There  not  a  sound  the  deep  repose  pervades, 
Save  winds  and  founts,  diffusing  freshness  round, 

Through  the  light  domes  and  graceful  colonnades. 

Far  other  tones  have  swelled  those  courts  along, 

In  days  romance  yet  fondly  loves  to  trace  ; 
The  clash  of  arms,  the  voice  of  choral  song, 

The  revels,  combats,  of  a  vanished  race. 


THE  ABENCERRAGE.  6$ 

And  yet  awhile,  at  Fancy's  potent  call, 

Shall  rise  that  race,  the  chivalrous,  the  bold; 
Peopling  once  more  each  fair,  forsaken  hall, 

With  stately  forms,  the  knights  and  chiefs  of  old 

— The  sun  declines — upon  Nevada's  height 
There  dwells  a  mellow  flush  of  rosy  light ; 
Each  soaring  pinnacle  of  mountain  snow 
Smiles  in  the  richness  of  that  parting  glow, 
And  Darro's  wave  reflects  each  passing  dye 
That  melts  and  mingles  in  the  empurpled  sky. 
Fragrance,  exhaled  from  rose  and  citron  bower, 
Blends  with  the  dewy  freshness  of  the  hour  : 
Hushed  are  the  winds,  and  Nature  seems  to  sleep 
In  light  and  stillness ;  wood,  and  tower,  and  steep, 
Are  dyed  with  tints  of  glory,  only  given 
To  the  rich  evening  of  a  southern  heaven ; 
Tints  of  the  sun,  whose  bright  farewell  is  fraught 
With  all  that  art  hath  dreamt,  but  never  caught 
— Yes,  Nature  sleeps  ,  but  not  with  her  at  rest 
The  fiery  passions  of  the  human  breast. 
Hark  !  from  the  Alhambra's  towers  what  stormy  sound, 
Each  moment  deepening,  wildly  swells  around  ? 
Those  are  no  tumults  of  a  festal  throng, 
Not  the  light  zambra,  nor  the  choral  song  : 
The  combat  rages — 'tis  the  shout  of  war, 
'Tis  the  loud  clash  of  shield  and  scimitar. 
Within  the  Hall  of  Lions,  where  the  rays 
Of  eve,  yet  lingering,  on  the  fountain  blaze  ; 
There,  girt  and  guarded  by  his  Zegri  bands, 
And  stern  in  wrath,  the  Moorish  monarch  stands: 
There  the  strife  centres — swords  around  him  wave; 
There  bleed  the  fallen,  there  contend  the  brave, 
While  echoing  domes  return  the  battle-cry, 
"  Revenge  and  freedom  !  let  the  tyrant  die !  " 
And  onward  rushing,  and  prevailing  still. 
Court,  hall,  and  tower,  the  fierce  avengers  fill. 

But  first  the  bravest  of  that  gallant  train, 
Where  foes  are  mightiest,  charging  ne'er  in  vain; 
In  his  red  hand  the  sabre  glancing  bright, 
His  dark  eye  flashing  with  a  fiercer  light, 
Ardent,  untired,  scarce  conscious  that  he  bleeds, 
His  Aben-Zurrahs  there  young  Hamet  leads  ; 
While  swells  his  voice  that  wild  acclaim  on  high, 
"  Revenge  and  freedom  !  let  the  tyrant  die  !" 

Yes  !  trace  the  footsteps  of  the  warrior's  wrath 
By  helm  and  corslet  shattered  in  his  path, 
And  by  the  thickest    harvest  of  the  slain, 
And  by  the  marble's  deepest  c  imson  stain 


66  THE  ABENCERRAGE 


Search  through  the  serried  fight,  where  loudest  cries 
From  '-riumph,  anguish,  or  despair,  arise  ; 
And  brightest  where  the  shivering  falchions  glare, 
And  where  the  ground  is  reddest — he  is  there. 
Yes,  that  young  arm,  amidst  the  Zegri  host, 
Hath  well  avenged  a  sire,  a  brother,  lost. 

They  perished — not  as  heroes  should  have  died 
On  the  red  field,  in  victory's  hour  of  pride, 
In  all  the  glow  and  sunshine  of  their  fame, 
And  proudly  smiling  as  the  death-pang  came  : 
Oh  !  had  they  thus  expired,  a  warrior's  tear 
Had  flowed,  almost  in  triumph,  o'er  their  bier. 
For  thus  alone  the  brave  should  weep  for  those 
Who  brightly  pass  in  glory  to  repose. 
— Not  such  their  fate — a  tyrant's  stern  command 
Doomed  them  to  fall  by  some  ignoble  hand, 
As,  with  the  flower  of  all  their  high-born  race, 
Summoned  Abdallah's  royal  feast  to  grace, 
Fearless  in  heart,  no  dream  of  danger  nigh, 
They  sought  the  banquet's  gilded  hall — to  die. 
Betrayed,  unarmed,  they  fel! — the  fountain  wave 
Flowed  crimson  with  the  life-blood  of  the  brave, 
Till  far  the  fearful  tidings  of  their  fate 
Through  the  wide  city  rang  from  gate  to  gate, 
And  of  that  lineage  each  surviving  son 
Rushed  to  the  scene  where  vengeance  might  be  won. 

For  this  young  Hamet  mingles  in  the  strife, 
Leader  of  battle,  prodigal  of  life, 
Urging  his  followers  still  their  foes,  beset, 
Stand  faint  and  breathless,  but  undaunted  yet. 
Brave  Aben-Zurrahs,  on !  one  effort  more, 
Yours  is  the  triumph,  and  the  conflict  o'er. 

But  lo  !  descending  o'er  the  darkened  hall, 
The  twilight  shadows  fast  and  deeply  fall, 
Nor  yet  the  strife  hath  ceased — though  scarce  they  knowr 
Through  that  thick  gloom,  the  brother  from  the  foe  ; 
Till  the  moon  rises  with  her  cloudless  ray, 
The  peaceful  moon,  and  gives  them  light  to  slay. 

Where  lurks  Abdallah  ? — 'midst  his  yielding  train, 
They  seek  the  guilty  monarch,  but  in  vain. 
He  lies  not  numbered  with  the  valiant  dead, 
His  champions  round  him  have  not  vainly  bled  ; 
But  when  the  twilight  spread  her  shadowy  veil, 
And  his  last  warriors  found  each  effort  fail, 
In  wild  despair  he  fled — a  trusted  few, 
Kindred  in  crime,  are  still  in  drxnyer  true  ; 


THE  ABENCERRAGE.  67 


And  o'er  the  scene  of  many  a  martial  deed, 
The  Vega's  green  expanse,  his  flying  footsteps  lead. 
He  passed  the  Alhambra's  calm  and  lovely  bowers, 
Where  slept  the  glistening  leaves  and  folded  flowers,- 
In  dew  and  starlight — there,  from  grot  and  cave, 
Gushed,  in  wild  music,  many  a  sparkling  wave  ; 
There,  on  each  breeze,  the  breath  of  fragrance  rose, 
And  all  was  freshness,  beauty  and  repose. 

But  thou,  dark  monarch  !  in  thy  bosom  reign 
Storms  that,  once  roused,  shall  never  sleep  again. 
Oh  !  vainly  bright  is  Nature  in  the  course 
Of  him  who  flies  from  terror  or  remorse ! 
A  spell  is  round  him  which  obscures  her  bloom, 
And  dims  her  skies  with  shadows  of  the  tomb  ; 
There  smiles  no  Paradise  on  earth  so  fair, 
But  guilt  will  raise  avenging  phantoms  there. 
Abdallah  heeds  not,  though  the  light  gale  roves 
Fraught  with  rich  odor,  stolen  from  orange -groves ; 
Hears  not  the  sounds  from  wood  and  brook  that  rise, 
Wild  notes  of  Nature's  vesper-melodies  ; 
Marks  not  how  lovely,  on  the  mountain's  head, 
Moonlight  and  snow  their  mingling  lustre  spread  ; 
But  urges  onward,  till  his  weary  band, 
Worn  with  their  toil,  a  moment's  pause  demand. 
He  stops,  and  turning,  on  Granada's  fanes 
In  silence  gazing,  fixed  awhile  remains 
In  stern,  deep  silence — o'er  his  feverish  brow, 
And  burning  cheek,  pure  breezes  freshly  blow, 
But  waft,  in  fitful  murmurs,  from  afar, 
Sounds  indistinctly  fearful, — as  of  war. 
What  meteor  bursts,  with  sudden  blaze,  on  high, 
O'er  the  blue  clearness  of  the  starry  sky? 
Awful  it  rises,  like  some  Genie-form, 
Seen  'midst  the  redness  of  the  desert  storm, 
Magnificently  dread — above,  below, 
Spreads  the  wild  splendor  of  its  deepening  glow. 
Lo !  from  the  Alhambra's  towers  the  vivid  glare 
Streams  through  the  still  transparence  of  the  air ! 
Avenging  crowds  have  lit  the  mighty  pyre, 
Which  feeds  that  waving  pyramid  of  fire  ; 
And  dome  and  minaret,  river,  wood,  and  height, 
From  dim  perspective  start  to  ruddy  light. 

Oh  Heaven !  the  anguish  of  Abdallah's  soul, 
The  rage,  though  fruitless,  yet  beyond  control! 
Yet  must  he  cease  io  gaze,  and  raving  fly 
For  life — such  life  as  makes  it  bliss  to  die ! 
On  yon  green  height,  the  mosque,  but  half  revealed 
Through  cypress-groves,  a  safe  retreat  may  yield. 
Thither  his  steps  are  bent — yet  oft  he  turns, 
Watching  that  fearful  beacon  as  it  burns. 


68  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 

But  paler  grow  the  sinking  flames  at  last. 
Flickering  they  fade,  their  crimson  light  is  past ; 
And  spiry  vapors,  rising  o'er  the  scene, 
Mark  where  the  terrors  of  their  wrath  have  been. 
And  now  his  feet  have  reached  that  lonely  pile, 
Where  grief  and  terror  may  repose  awhile ; 
Embowered  it  stands,  'midst  wood  and  cliff  on  high, 
Through  the  gray  rocks,  a  torrent  sparkling  nigh; 
He  hails  the  scene  where  every  care  should  cease, 
And  all — except  the  heart  he  brings — is  peace. 

There  is  a  deep  stillness  in  those  halls  of  state 
Where  the  loud  cries  of  conflict  rang  so  late ; 
Stillness  like  that,  when  fierce  the  Kamsin's  blast 
Hath  o'er  the  dwellings  of  the  desert  passed. 
Fearful  the  calm — nor  voice,  nor  step,  nor  breath, 
Disturbs  that  scene  of  beauty  and  of  death  : 
Those  vaulted  roofs  re-echo  not  a  sound, 
Save  the  wild  gush  of  waters — murmuring  round 
In  ceaseless  melodies  of  plaintive  tone, 
Through  chambers  peopled  by  the  dead  alone. 
O'er  the  mosaic  floors,  with  carnage  red, 
Breastplate,  and  shield;  and  cloven  helm  are  spread 
In  mingled  fragments — glittering  to  the  light 
Of  yon  still  moon,  whose  rays,  yet  softly  bright, 
Their  streaming  lustre  tremulously  shed, 
And  smile,  in  placid  beauty  o'er  the  dead : 
O'er  features  where  the  fiery  spirit's  trace 
E'en  death  itself  is  powerless  to  efface ; 
O'er  those  who,  flushed  with  ardent  youth,  awoke, 
When  glowing  morn  in  gloom  and  radiance  broke, 
Nor  dreamt  how  near  the  dark  and  frozen  sleep 
Which  hears  not  Glory  call,  nor  Anguish  weep; 
In  the  low  silent  house,  the  narrow  spot, 
Home  of  forgetfulness — and  soon  forgot. 

But  slowly  fade  the  stars — the  night  is  o'er — 
Morn  beams  on  those  who  hail  her  light  no  more  ; 
Slumberers  who  ne'er  shall  wake  on  earth  again, 
.Mourners,  who  call  the  loved,  the  lost,  in  vain. 
Yet  smiles  the  day — oh  !  not  for  mortal  tear 
Doth  nature  deviate  from  her  calm  career  ; 
Nor  is  the  earth  less  laughing  or  less  fair, 
Though  breaking  hearts  her  gladness  may  not  share. 
O'er  the  cold  urn  the  beam  of  summer  glows, 
O'er  fields  of  blood  the  zephyr  freshly  blows ; 
Bright  shines  the  sun,  though  all  be  dark  below, 
And  skies  are  cloudless  o'er  a  world  of  woe, 
And  flowers  renewed  in  spring's  green  pathway  bloone, 
Alike  to  grace  the  banquet  and  the  tomb. 

Within  Granada's  walls  the  funeral-rite 
Attends  that  day  of  loveliness  and  light ; 


THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


And  many  a  chief,  with  dirges  and  with  tears, 
Is  gathered  to  the  brave  of  other  years  : 
And  Harriet,  as  beneath  the  cypress-shade 
His  martyred  brother  and  his  sire  are  laid, 
Feels  every  deep  resolve,  and  burning  thought 
Of  ampler  vengeance,  e'en  to  passion  wrought; 
Yet  is  the  hour  afar  —  and  he  must  brood 
O'er  those  dark  dreams  awhile  in  solitude. 
Tumult  and  rage  are  hushed  —  another  day 
In  still  solemnity  hath  passed  away, 
In  the  deep  slumber  of  exhausted  wrath, 
The  calm  that  follows  in  the  tempest's  path. 

And  now  Abdallah  leaves  yon  peaceful  fane, 
His  ravaged  city  traversing  again. 
No  sound  of  gladness  his  approach  precedes, 
No  splendid  pageant  the  procession  leads  ; 
Where'er  he  moves  the  silent  streets  along, 
Broods  a  stern  quiet  o'er  the  sullen  throng. 
No  voice  is  heard  ;  but  in  each  altered  eye, 
Once  brightly  beaming  when  his  steps  were  nigh, 
And  in  each  look  of  those  whose  love  hath  fled 
From  all  on  earth  to  slumber  with  the  dead, 
Those  by  his  guilt  made  desolate,  and  thrown 
On  the  bleak  wilderness  of  life  alone  — 
In  youth's  quick  glance  of  scarce-dissembled  rage, 
And  the  pale  mien  of  calmly-mournful  age, 
May  well  be  read  a  dark  and  fearful  tale 
Of  thought  that  ill  the  indignant  heart  can  veil, 
And  passion,  like  the  hushed  volcano's  power, 
That  'waits  in  stillness  its  appointed  hour. 

No  more  the  clarion  from  Granada's  walls, 
Heard  o'er  the  Vega,  to  the  tourney  calls  ; 
No  more  her  graceful  daughters,  throned  on  high, 
Bend  o'er  the  lists  the  darkly-radiant  eye  ; 
Silence  and  gloom  her  palaces  o'erspread, 
And  song  is  hushed,  and  pageantry  is  fled. 
—  Weep,  fated  city  !  o'er  thy  heroes  weep  — 
Low  in  the  dust  the  sons  of  glory  sleep  ! 
Furled  are  their  banners  in  the  lonely  hall, 
Their  trophied  shields  hang  mouldering  on  the  wallf 
Wildly  their  chargers  range  the  pastures  o'er, 
The  voice  in  battle  shall  be  heard  no  more  ; 
And  they,  who  still  thy  tyrant's  wrath  survive, 
Whom  he  hath  wronged  too  deeply  to  forgive, 
That  race,  of  lineage  high,  of  worth  approved, 
The  chivalrous,  the  princely,  the  beloved  — 
Thine  Aben-Zurrahs  —  they  no  more  shall  wield 
In  thy  proud  cause  the  conquering  lance  and  shield' 
Condemned  to  bid  the  cherished  scenes  farewell 
Where  the  loved  ashes  of  their  fathers  dwell, 


THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


And  far  o'er  foreign  plains,  as  exiles,  roam, 
Their  land  the  desert,  and  the  grave  their  home. 
Yet  there  is  one  shall  see  that  race  depart, 
In  deep,  though  silent,  agony  of  heart ; 
One  whose  dark  fate  must  be  to  mourn  alone, 
Unseen  her  sorrows,  and  their  cause  unknown, 
And  veil  her  heart,  and  teach  her  cheek  to  wear 
That  smile,  in  which  the  spirit  hath  no  share  ; 
Like  the  bright  beams  that  shed  their  fruitless  glow 
O'er  the  cold  solitude  of  Alpine  snow 

Soft,  fresh,  and  silent,  is  the  midnight  hour, 
And  the  young  Zayda  seeks  her  lonely  bower; 
That  Zegri  maid,  within  whose  gentle  mind 
One  name  is  deeply,  secretly  enshrined. 
That  name  in  vain  stern  Reason  would  efface* 
Hamet !  'tis  thine,  thou  foe  to  all  her  race  ! 

And  yet  not  hers  in  bitterness  to  prove 
The  sleepless  pangs  of  unrequited  love  ; 
Pangs,  which  the  rose  of  wasted  youth  consume. 
And  make  the  heart  of  all  delight  the  tomb, 
Check  the  free  spirit  in  its  eagle-flight, 
And  the  spring-morn  of  early  genius  blight ; 
Nor  such  her  grief — though  now  she  wakes  to  weep, 
While  tearless  eyes  enjoy  the  honey-dews  of  sleep. 

A  step  treads  lightly  through  the  citron  shade, 
Lightly,  but  by  the  rustling  leaves  betrayed — 
Doth  her  young  hero  seek  that  well-known  spot, 
Scene  of  past  hours  that  ne'er  may  be  forgot  ? 
Tis  he — but  changed  that  eye,  whose.glance  of  fire 
Could,  like  a  sunbeam,  hope  and  joy  inspire, 
As,  luminous  with  youth,  with  ardor  fraught, 
It  spoke  of  glory  to  the  inmost  thought ; 
Thence  the  bright  spirit's  eloquence  hath  fled, 
And  in  its  wild  expression  may  be  read 
Stern  thoughts  and  fierce  resolves — now  veiled  in  shade. 
And  now  in  characters  of  fire  portrayed. 
Changed  e'en  his  voice — as  thus  its  mournful  tone 
Wakes  in  her  heart  each  feeling  of  his  own. 

"  Zayda,  my  doom  is  fixed — another  day 
And  the  wronged  exile  shall  be  far  away ; 
Far  from  the  scenes  where  still  his  heart  must  be, 
His  home  of  youth,  and  more  than  ail — from  thee. 
Oh !  what  a  cloud  hath  gathered  o'er  my  lot, 
Since  last  we  met  on  this  fair  tranquil  spot ! 
Lovely  as  then,  the  soft  and  silent  hour, 
And  not  a  rose  hath  faded  from  thy  bower ; 
But  I — my  hopes  the  tempest  hath  o'erthrown, 
And  changed  my  heart,  to  all  but  thee  alone. 


THE  ABENCERRAGE  ^l 


Fare%vell,  high  thoughts !  inspiring  hopes  of  praise ! 

Heroic  visions  of  my  early  days! 

In  me  the  glories  of  my  race  must  end — 

The  exile  hath  no  country  to  defend  ! 

E'en  in  life's  morn  my  dreams  .of  pride  are  o'er 

Youth's  buoyant  spirit  wakes  for  me  no  more, 

And  one  wild  feeling  in  my  altered  breast 

Broods  darkly  o'er  the  ruins  of  the  rest. 

Yet  fear  not  thou — to  thee  in  good  or  ill, 

The  heart,  so  sternly  tried,  is  faithful  still ! 

But  when  my  steps  are  distant,  and  my  name 

Thou  nearest  no  longer  in  the  song  of  fame  i 

When  Time  steals  on  in  silence  to  efface 

Of  early  love  each  pure  and  sacred  trace, 

Causing  our  sorrows  and  our  hopes  to  seem 

But  as  the  moonlight  pictures  of  a  dream, — 

Still  shall  thy  soul  be  with  me,  in  the  truth 

And  all  the  fervor  of  affection's  youth  ? 

If  such  thy  love,  one  beam  of  heaven  shall  play 

In  lonely  beauty  o'er  thy  wanderer's  way." 

"  Ask  not,  if  such  my  love  !  Oh  !  trust  the  mind 
To  grief  so  long,  so  silently  resigned  ! 
Let  the  light  spirit,  ne'er  by  sorrow  taught 
The  pure  and  lofty  constancy  of  thought, 
Its  fleeting  trials  eager  to  forget, 
Rise  with  elastic  power  o'er  each  regret ! 
Fostered  in  tears,  our  young  affection  grew, 
And  I  have  learned  to  suffer  and  be  true. 
Deem  not  my  love  a  frail,  ephemeral  flower, 
Nursed  by  soft  sunshine  and  the  balmy  shower; 
No  !  'tis  the  child  of  tempests,  and  defies, 
And  meets  unchanged,  the  anger  of  the  skies! 
Too  well  I  feel,  with  grief's  prophetic  heart, 
That  ne'er  to  meet  in  happier  days,  we  part. 
We  part !  and  e'en  this  agonizing  hour, 
When  love  first  feels  his  own  o'erwhelming  power, 
Shall  soon  to  Memory's  fixed  and  tearful  eye 
Seem  almost  happiness — for  thou  wert  nigh  ! 
Yes  !  when  this  heart  in  solitude  shall  bleed, 
As  days  to  days  all  wearily  succeed, 
When  doomed  to  weep  in  loneliness,  'twill  be 
Almost  like  rapture  to  have  wept  with  thee. 

"  But  thou,  my  Hamet,  thou  canst  yet  bestow 
All  that  of  joy  my  blighted  lot  can  know. 
Oh  !  be  thou  still  the  high-souled  and  the  brave, 
To  whom  my  first  and  fondest  vows  I  gave  ; 
In  thy  proud  fame's  untarnishd  beauty  still 
The  lofty  visions  of  my  youth  fulfil. 
So  shall  it  soothe  me,  'midst  my  heart's  despair, 
To  hold  undimmed  one  clorlous  image  there  !  " 


72  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


"  Zayda,  my  best-beloved  !  my  words  too  well, 
Too  soon,  thy  bright  illusions  must  dispel ; 
Yet  must  my  soul  to  thee  unveiled  be  shown, 
And  all  its  dreams  and  all  its  passions  known. 
Thou  shall  not  be  deceived— for  pure  as  heaven 
Is  thy  young  love,  in  faith  and  fervor  given. 
I  said  my  heart  was  changed — and  would  thy  thought 
Explore  the  ruin  by  thy  kindred  wrought, 
In  fancy  trace  the  land  whose  towers  and  fanes, 
Crushed  by  the  earthquake,  strew  its  ravaged  plains  j 
And  such  that  heart — where  desolation's  hand 
Hath  blighted  all  that  once  was  fair  or  grand! 
But  Vengeance,  fixed  upon  her  burning  throne, 
Sits,  'midst  the  wreck,  in  silence  and  alone  ; 
And  I,  in  stern  devotion  at  hci  shrine, 
Each  softer  feeling,  but  my  love,  resign. 
— Yes  !  they  whose  spirits  aJl  my  thoughts  control, 
Who  hold  dread  converse  with  my  thrilling  soul ; 
They,  the  betrayed,  the  sacrificed,  the  brave, 
Who  fill  a  blood-stained  and  untimely  grave, 
Must  be  avenged !  and  pity  and  remorse 
In  that  stern  cause  are  banished  from  my  course. 
Zayda,  thou  tremblest — and  thy  gentle  breast 
Shrinks  from  the  passions  that  destroy  my  rest ; 
Yet  shall  thy  form,  in  many  a  stormy  hour, 
Pass  brightly  o'er  my  soul  with  softening  power, 
And,  oft  recalled,  thy  voice  beguile  my  lot, 
Like  some  sweet  lay,  once  heard,  and  ne'er  forgot. 

"  But  the  night  wanes — the  hours  too  swiftly  fly, 
The  bitter  moment  of  farewell  draws  nigh  ; 
Yet,  loved  one  !  weep  not  thus — in  joy  or  pain, 
Oh  !  trust  thy  Hamet,  we  shall  meet  again! 
Yes,  we  shall  meet !  and  haply  smile  at  last 
On  all  the  clouds  and  conflicts  of  the  past. 
On  that  fair  vision  teach  thy  thoughts  to  dwell, 
Nor  deem  these  mingling  tears  our  last  farewell !  " 

Is  the  voice  hushed,  whose  loved,  expressive  tone 
Thrilled  to  her  heart — and  doth  she  weep  alone? 
Alone  she  weeps;  that  hour  of  parting  o'er, 
When  shall  the  pang  it  leaves  be  felt  no  more  ? 
The  gale  breathes  light,  and  fans  her  bosom  fair, 
Showering  the  dewy  rose-leaves  o'er  her  hair ; 
But  ne'er  for  her  shall  dwell  reviving  power 
In  balmy  dew,  soft  breeze,  or  fragrant  flower, 
To  wake  once  more  that  calm,  serene  delight, 
The  soul's  young  bloom,  which  passion's  breath  could  blight- 
The  smiling  stillness  of  life's  morning  hour, 
Ere  yet  the  day-star  burns  in  all  his  power 
Meanwhile  through  groves  of  deep  luxurious  shade, 
In  the  rich  foliage  of  the  South  arrayed, 


THE  ABENCERRAGE.  73 

Hamet,  ere  dawns  the  earliest  blush  of  day, 

Bends  to  the  vale  of  tombs  his  pensive  way. 

Fair  is  that  scene  where  palm  and  cypress  wave 

On  high  o'er  many  an  Aben-Zurrah's  grave. 

Lonely  and  fair,  its  fresh  and  glittering  leaves 

With  the  young  myrtle  there  the  laurel  weaves, 

To  canopy  the  dead  ;  nor  wanting  there 

Flowers  to  the  turf,  nor  fragrance  to  the  air, 

Nor  wood-bird's  note,  nor  fall  of  plaintive  stream — 

Wild  music,  soothing  to  the  mourner's  dream. 

There  sleep  the  chiefs  of  old— their  combats  o'er, 

The  voice  of  glory  thrills  their  hearts  no  more. 

Unheard  by  them  the  awakening  clarion  blows* 

The  sons  of  war  at  length  in  peace  repose. 

No  martial  note  is  in  the  gale  that  sighs, 

Where  proud  their  trophied  sepulchres  arise, 

'Mid  founts,  and  shade?,  and  flowers  of  brightest  bloom, 

As,  in  his  native  vale,  some  shepherd's  tomb. 

There,  where  the  trees  their  thickest  foliage  spread 
Dark  o'er  that  silent  valley  of  the  dead  ; 
Where  two  fair  pillars  rise,  embowered  and  lone, 
Not  yet  with  ivy  clad,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 
Young  Hamet  kneels — while  thus  his  vows  are  poured, 
The  fearful  vows  that  consecrate  his  sword : 
— "  Spirit  of  him  who  first  within  my  mind 
Each  loftier  aim,  each  nobler  thought  enshrined, 
And  taught  my  steps  the  line  of  light  to  trace, 
Left  by  the  glorious  fathers  of  my  race, 
Hear  thou  my  voice — for  mine  is  with  me  still, 
In  every  dream  its  tones  my  bosom  thrill, 
In  the  deep  calm  of  midnight  they  are  near, 
'Midst  busy  throngs  they  vibrate  on  my  ear, 
Still  murmuring  '  vengeance  ! ' — nor  in  vain  the  call. 
Few,  few  shall  triumph  in  a  hero's  fall ! 
Cold  as  thine  own  to  glory  and  to  fame, 
Within  my  heart  ihere  lives  one  only  aim; 
There,  till  the  oppressor  for  thy  fate  atone, 
Concentring  every  thought,  it  reigns  alone- 
I  will  not  weep — revenge,  not  grief,  must  be, 
And  blood,  not  tears,  an  offering  meet  for  thee ; 
But  the  dark  hour  of  stern  delight  will  come, 
And  thou  shall  triumph,  warrior !  in  thy  tomb. 

"  Thou,  too,  my  brother !  thou  art  passed  away, 
Without  thv  fame,  in  life's  fair-dawning  day. 
Son  of  the  brave  !  of  thee  no  trace  will  shine 
In  the  proud  annals  of  thy  lofty  line; 
Nor  shall  thy  deeds  be  deathless  in  the  lays 
That  hold  communion  with  the  after-days. 
Yet,  by  the  wreaths  thou  mightst  have  nobly  won, 
Hadst  thou  but  lived  till  rose  thy  noontide  sun; 


74  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


By  glory  lost,  I  swear  !  by  hope  betrayed, 
Thy  fate  shall  amply,  dearly,  be  repaid ; 
War  with  thy  foes  I  deem  a  holy  strife, 
And,  to  avenge  thy  death,  devote  my  life. 

"  Hear  ye  my  vows,  O  spirits  of  the  slain  I 
Hear,  and  be  with  me  on  the  battle-plain! 
At  noon,  at  midnight,  still  around  me  bide, 
Rise  on  my  dreams,  and  tell  me  how  ye  died ! " 


CANTO    II. 

"  Oh  !  ben  provvide  il  Cielo 
Ch'  Uom  per  delitti  mai  lieto  non  sia." 

ALFIHRf. 

FAIR  land !  of  chivalry  the  old  domain, 
Land  of  the  vine  and  olive,  lovely  Spain ! 
Though  not  for  thee  with  classic  shores  to  vie 
In  charms  that  fix  the  enthusiast's  pensive  eye ; 
Yet  hast  thou  scenes  of  beauty,  richly  fraught 
With  all  that  wakes  the  glow  of  lofty  thought ; 
Fountains,  and  vales,  and  rocks,  whose  ancient  name 
High  deeds  have  raised  to  mingle  with  their  fame. 
Those  scenes  are  peaceful  now  :  the  citron  blows, 
Wild  spreads  the  myrtle,  where  the  brave  repose. 
No  sound  of  battle  swells  on  Douro's  shore, 
And  banners  wave  on  Ebro's  banks  no  more. 
But  who,  unmoved,  unawed,  shall  coldly  tread 
Thy  fields  that  sepulchre  the  mighty  dead  ? 
Blest  be  that  soil !  where  England's  heroes  share 
The  grave  of  chiefs,  for  ages  slumbering  there ; 
Whose  names  are  glorious  in  romantic  lays, 
The  wild,  sweet  chronicles  of  elder  days — 
By  goatherd  lone,  and  rude  Serrano  sung, 
Thy  cypress  dells,  and  vine-clad  rocks  among: 
How  oft  those  rocks  have  echoed  to  the  tale 
Of  knights  who  fell  in  Roncesvalles'  vale ; 
Oi"  him,  renowned  in  old  heroic  lore, 
First  of  the  brave,  the  gallant  Campeador ; 
Of  those,  the  famed  in  song,  who  proudly  died 
When  "  Rio  Verde  "  rolled  a  crimson  tide; 
Or  that  high  name,  by  Garcilaso's  might, 
On  the  green  Vega  won  in  single  fight. 

Round  fair  Granada,  deepening  from  afar, 
O'er  that  green  Vega  rose  the  din  of  war. 
At  morn  or  eve  no  more  the  sunbeams  shone 
O'er  a  calm  scene,  in  pastoral  bea-'t"  lone  ; 
On  helm  and  corslet  tremulous  they  glanced, 
On  shield  and  spear  in  quivering  lustre  danced. 
Far  as  the  sight  by  clear  Xenil  could  rove, 
Tents  rose  around,  and  banners  glanced  above. 


THE  ABENCERRAGE.  75 

And  steeds  in  gorgeous  trappings,  armor  bright 
With  gold,  reflecting  every  tint  of  light, 
And  many  a  floating  plume,  and  blazoned  shield, 
Diffused  romantic  splendor  o'er  the  field. 

There  swell  those  sounds  that  bid  the  life-blood  start 
Swift  to  the  mantling  cheek  and  beating  heart 
The  clang  of  echoing  steel,  the  charger's  neigh, 
The  measured  tread  of  hosts  in  war's  array ; 
And,  oh  !  that  music,  whose  exulting  breath 
Speaks  but  of  glory  on  the  road  to  death  ; 
In  whose  wild  voice  there  dwells  inspiring  power 
To  wake  the  stormy  joy  of  danger's  hour  ; 
To  nerve  the  arm,  the  spirit  to  sustain, 
Rouse  from  despondence,  and  support  in  pain  ; 
And,  'midst  the  deepening  tumults  of  the  strife, 
Teach  every  pulse  to  thrill  with  more  than  life. 

High  o'er  the  camp,  in  many  a  broidered  fold, 
Floats  to  the  wind  a  standard  rich  with  gold : 
There,  imaged  on  the  cross,  His  form  appears 
Who  drank  for  man  the  bitter  cup  of  tears — 
His  form,  whose  word  recalled  the  spirit  fled, 
Now  borne  by  hosts  to  guide  them  o'er  the  dead  I 
O'er  yon  fair  walls  to  plant  the  cross  on  high, 
Spain  hath  sent  forth  her  flower  of  chivalry. 
Fired  with  that  ardor  which,  in  days  of  yore, 
To  Syrian  plains  the  bold  crusaders  bore; 
Elate  with  lofty  hope,  with  martial  zeal, 
They  come,  the  gallant  children  of  Castile  ; 
The  proud,  the  calmly  dignified  : — and  there 
Ebro's  dark  sons  with  haughty  mien  repair, 
And  those  who  guide  the  fiery  steed  of  war 
From  yon  rich  province  of  the  western  star. 

But  thon,  conspicuous  'midst  the  glitt'ring  scene, 
Stern  grandeur  stamped  upon  thy  princely  mien ; 
Known  by  the  foreign  garb,  the  silvery  vest, 
The  snow-white  charger,  and  the  azure  crest, 
Young  Aben-Zurrah  1  'midst  that  host  of  foes, 
"Why  shines  t/iy  helm,  thy  Moorish  lance  ?     Disclose ! 
\\'hy  rise  the  tents  where  dwell  thy  kindred  train, 
•O.son  of  Afric,  'midst  the  sons  of  Spain  ? 
Hast  thot;  with  these  thy  nation's  fall  conspired, 
Apostate  chief !  by  hope  of  vengeance  fired  ? 
How  art  thou  changed  !     Still  first  in  every  fight, 
Hamet,  the  Moor  !  Castile's  devoted  knight! 
There  dwells  a  fiery  lustre  in  thine  eye, 
But  not  the  light  that  shone  in  days  gone  by  j 
There  is  wild  ardor  in  thy  look  and  tone, 
But  not  the  soul's  expression  once  thine  own. 


7')  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


Nor  aught  like  peace  within.     Yet  who  shall  say 
What  secret  thoughts  thine  inmost  heart  may  sway  ? 
No  eye  but  Heaven's  may  pierce  that  curtained  breast, 
Whose  joys  and  griefs  alike  are  unexpressed. 

There  hath  been  combat  on  the  tented  plain  ; 
The  Vega's  turf  is  red  with  many  a  stain; 
And,  rent  and  trampled,  banner,  crest,  and  shield, 
Tell  of  a  fierce  and  well-contested  field  : 
But  all  is  peaceful  now — the  west  is  bright 
With  the  rich  splendor  of  departing  light; 
Mulhacen's  peak,  half  lost  amidst  the  sky, 
Glows  like  a  purple  evening-cloud  on  high, 
And  tints,  that  mock  the  pencil's  art,  o'erspread 
The  eternal  snow  that  crowns  Veleta's  head  ; 
While  the  warm  sunset  o'er  the  landscape  throws 
A  solemn  beauty,  and  a  deep  repose. 
Closed  are  the  toils  and  tumults  of  the  day, 
And  Hamet  wanders  from  the  camp  away, 
In  silent  musings  wrapt; — the  slaughtered  brave 
Lie  thickly  strewn  by  Darro's  rippling  wave. 
Soft  fall  the  dews — but  other  drops  have  dyed 
The  scented  shrubs  that  fringe  the  river  side, 
Beneath  whose  shade,  as  ebbing  life  retired, 
The  wounded  sought  a  shelter — and  expired. 
Lonely,  and  lost  in  thoughts  of  other  days, 
By  the  bright  windings  of  the  stream  he  strays, 
Till,  more  remote  from  battle's  ravaged  scene, 
All  is  repose,  and  solitude  serene. 
There,  'neath  an  olive's  ancient  shade  reclined, 
Whose  rustling  foliage  waves  in  evening's  wind, 
The  harassed  warrior,  yielding  to  the  power, 
The  mild  sweet  influence  of  the  tranquil  hour, 
Feels,  by  degrees,  a  long-forgotten  calm 
Shed  o'er  his  troubled  soul  unwonted  bairn; 
His  wrongs,  his  woes,  his  dark  and  dubious  lot, 
The  past,  the  future,  are  awhile  forgot.; 
And  Hope,  scarce  owned,  yet  stealing  o'er  his  breast, 
Half  dares  to  whisper,  "  Thou  shalt  yet  be  blest !  " 

Such  his  vague  musings — but  a  plaintive  sound 
Breaks  on  the  deep  and  solemn  stillness  round  ; 
A  low,  half-stifled  moan,  that  seems  to  rise 
From  life  and  death's  contending  agonies. 
He  turns  :  Who  shares  with  him  that  lonely  shade  ? 
— A  youthful  warrior  on  his  deathbed  laid. 
All  rent  and  stained  his  broidered  Moorish  vest, 
The  corslet  shattered  on  his  bleeding  breast; 
In  his  cold  hand  the  broken  falchion  strained, 
With  life's  last  force  convulsively  retained  ; 
His  plumage  soiled  with  dust,  with  crimson  dyed, 
And  the  red  lance,  in  fragments,  by  his  side  ; 


TJIE  ABENCEKRAGE. 


77 


He  lies  forsaken — pillowed  on  his  shield, 
His  helmet  raised,  his  lineaments  revealed. 
Pale  is  that  quivering  lip,  and  vanished  now 
The  light  once  throned  on  that  commanding  brow; 
And  o'er  that  fading  eye,  still  upward  cast, 
The  shades  of  death  are  gathering  dark  and  fast. 
Yet,  as  yon  rising  moon  her  light  serene 
Sheds  the  pale  olive's  waving  boughs  between, 
Too  well  can  Hamet's  conscious  heart  retrace, 
Though  changed  thus  fearfully,  that  pallid  face, 
Whose  every  feature  to  his  soul  conveys 
Some  bitter  thought  of  long-departed  days. 

"  Oh  !  is  it  thus,"  he  cries,  "we  meet  at  last? 
Friend  of  my  soul  in  years  forever  past ! 
Hath  fate  but  led  me  hither  to  behold 
The  last  dread  struggle,  ere  that  heart  is  cold, — 
Receive  thy  latest  agonizing  breath, 
And,  with  vain  pity,  soothe  the  pangs  of  death  ? 
Yet  let  me  bear  thee  hence  ;  while  life  remains, 
E'en  though  thus  feebly  circling  through  thy  veins, 
Some  healing  balm  thy  sense  may  still  revive, 
Hope  is  not  lost — and  Osmyn  yet  may  live! 
And  blest  were  he,  whose  timely  care  should  save 
A  heart  so  noble,  e'en  from  glory's  grave." 

Roused  by  those  accents,  from  his  lowly  bed 
The  dying  warrior  faintly  lifts  his  head  ; 
O'er  Hamet's  mien,  with  vague,  uncertain  gaze, 
His  doubtful  glance  awhile  bewildered  strays ; 
Till,  by  degrees,  a  smile  of  proud  disdain 
Lights  up  those  features  late  convulsed  with  pain; 
A  quivering  radiance  flashes  from  his  eye, 
That  seems  too  pure,  too  full  of  soul  to  die  ; 
And  the  mind's  grandeur,  in  its  parting  hour, 
Looks  from  that  brow  with  more  than  wonted  power. 


"  Away  !  "  he  cries,  in  accents  of  command, 
And  proudly  waves  his  cold  and  trembling  hand. 
"  Apostate,  hence  !  my  soul  shall  soon  be  free, 
E'en  now  it  soars,  disdaining  aid  from  thee  : 
'Tis  not  for  thee  to  close  the  fading  eyes 
Of  him  who  faithful  to  his  country  dies  ; 
Not  for  thy  hand  to  raise  the  drooping  head 
Of  him  who  sinks  to  rest  on  glory's  bed. 
Soon  shall  these  pangs  be  closed,  this  conflict  o'er, 
And  worlds  be  mine  where  thou  canst  never  soar  : 
Be  thine  existence  with  a  blighted  name, 
Mine  the  bright  death  which  seals  a  warrior  \s  fame  1"' 


7s  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


The  glow  hath  vanished  from  his  cheek — his  eye 
Hath  lost  that  beam  of  parting  energy; 
Frozen  and  fixed  it  seems — his  brow  is  chill ; 
One  struggle  more — that  noble  heart  is  still. 
Departed  warrior !  were  thy  mortal  throes, 
Were  thy  last  pangs,  ere  Nature  found  repose, 
More  keen,  more  bitter,  than  the  envenomed  dart 
Thy  dying  words  have  left  in  Hamet's  heart  ? 
Thy  pangs  were  transient ;  his  shall  sleep  no  more, 
Till  life's  delirious  dream  itself  is  o'er ; 
But  thou  shall  rest  in  glory,  and  thy  grave 
Be  the  pure  altar  of  the  patriot  brave. 
Oh,  what  a  change  that  little  hour  hath  wrought 
In  the  high  spirit  and  unbending  thought ! 
Yet,  from  himself  each  keen  regret  to  hide, 
Still  Hamet  struggles  with  indignant  pride; 
While  his  soul  rises,  gathering  all  its  force, 
To  meet  the  fearful  conflict  with  remorse. 


To  thee,  at  length,  whose  artless  love  hath  been 
Kis  own,  unchanged,  through  many  a  stormy  scene  ; 
Zayda  !  to  thee  his  heart  for  refuge  flies ; 
Thou  still  art  faithful  to  affection's  ties. 
Yes !  let  the  world  upbraid,  let  foes  contemn, 
Thy  gentle  breast  the  tide  will  firmly  stem  ; 
And  soon  thy  smile,  and  soft  consoling  voice, 
Shall  bid  his  troubled  soul  again  rejoice. 

Within  Granada's  walls  are  hearts  and  hands 
Whose  aid  in  secret  Hamet  yet  commands  ; 
Nor  hard  the  task,  at  some  propitious  hour, 
To  win  his  silent  way  to  Zayda's  bower, 
When  night  and  peace  are  brooding  o'er  the  world. 
When  mute  the  clarions,  and  the  banners  furled. 
That  hour  is  come — and,  o'er  the  arms  he  bears, 
A  wandering  fakir's  garb  the  chieftain  wears : 
Disguise  that  ill  from  piercing  eye  could  hide 
The  lofty  port,  and  glance  of  martial  pride  ; 
But  night  befriends — through  paths  obscure  he  passed, 
And  hailed  the  lone  and  lovely  scene  at  last ; 
Young  Zayda's  chosen  haunt,  the  fair  alcove, 
The  sparkling  fountain,  and  the  orange  grove: 
Calm  in  the  moonlight  smiles  the  still  retreat,' 
As  formed  alone  for  happy  hearts  to  meet. 
For  happy  hearts  ? — not  such  as  hers,  who  there 
Bends  o'er  her  lute,  with  dark,  unbraided  hair; 
That  maid  of  Zegri  race,  whose  e  ;».  whose  mien, 
Tell  that  despair  her  bosom's  guest  hath  been. 
So  lost  in  thought  she  seems,  the  warrior's  feet 
Unheard  approach  her  solitary  seat, 


i  HE  ABENCERRAGE. 


Till  his  known  accents  every  sense  restore — 

"  My  own  "loved  Zayda  !  do  we  meet  once  more  ?  " 

She  starts,  she  turns — the  lightning  of  surprise, 

Of  sudden  rapture,  flashes  from  her  eyes  ; 

But  that  is  fleeting — it  is  past — and  now 

Far  other  meaning  darkens  o'er  her  brow  ; 

Changed  is  her  aspect,  and  her  tone  severe — 

"  Hence,  Aben-Zurrah  !  death  surrounds  thee  here  ! ' 

"  Zayda  !  what  means  that  glance,  unlike  thine  own? 

What  mean  those  words,  and  that  unwonted  tone  ? 

I  will  not  deem  thee  changed — but  in  thy  face 

It  is  not  joy,  it  is  not  love,  I  trace ! 

It  was  not  thus  in  other  days  we  met : 

Hath  time,  hath  absence,  taught  thee  to  forget  ? 

Oh  !  speak  once  more — these  rising  doubts  dispel ; 

One  smile  of  tenderness,  and  all  is  well ! " 

"  Not  thus  we  met  in  other  days ! — oh,  no ! 
Thou  wert  not,  warrior,  then  thy  country's  foe ! 
Those  days  are  past — we  ne'er  shall  meet  again 
With  hearts  all  warmth,  all  confidence,  as  then. 
But  thy  dark  soul  no  gentler  feelings  sway, 
Leader  of  hostile  bands  !  away,  away  ! 
On  in  thy  path  of  triumph  and  of  power, 
Nor  pause  to  raise  from  earth  a  blighted  flower." 

"  And  thoit  too  changed  I  thine  early  vow  forgot  I 
This,  this  alone  was  wanting  to  my  lot ! 
Exiled  and  scorned,  of  every  tie  bereft, 
Thy  love,  the  desert's  lonely  fount,  was  ieft ; 
And  thou,  my  soul's  last  hope,  its  lingering  beam, 
Thou,  the  good  angel  of  each  brighter  dreant, 
Wert  all  the  barrenness  of  life  possest, 
To  wake  one  soft  affection  in  my  breast ! 
That  vision  ended — fate  hath  naught  in  store 
Of  joy  or  sorrow  e'er  to  touch  me  more. 
Go,  Zegji  maid  !  to  scenes  of  sunshine  fly, 
From  the  stern  pupil  of  adversity  ! 
And  now  to  hope,  to  confidence,  adieu ! 
If  thou  are  faithless,  who  shall  e'er  be  true  ?" 

"  Hamet  !  oh,  wrong  me  not  ! — I  too  could  speak 
Of  sorrows — trace  them  on  my  faded  cheek, 
In  the  sunk  eye,  and  in  i'ue  wasted  form, 
That  tell  the  heart  hath  nursed  a  canker-worm  ! 
But  words  were  idle — read  my  sufferings  there, 
Where  grief  is  stamped  on*  all  that  once  was  fair. 

"  Oh,  wert  thou  still  what  once  I  fondly  deemed, 
All  that  thy  mien  expressed,  thy  spirit  seemed, 
My  love  had  been  devotion — til!  *"•  death 
Thy  name  had  trembled  or  ~r*  v 


8o  THE  ABEfrCERRAGE. 


But  not  the  chief  who  leads  a  lawless  band, 
To  crush  the  altars  of  his  native  land ; 
The  apostate  son  of  heroes,  whose  disgrace 
Hath  stained  the  trophies  of  a  glorious  race  ; 
Not  him  I  loved — but  one  whose  youthful  name 
Was  pure  and  radiant  in  unsullied  fame. 
Hadst  thou  but  died,  ere  yet  dishonor's  cloud 
O'er  that  young  name  had  gathered  as  a  shroud, 
I  then  had  mourned  thee  proudly,  and  my  grief 
In  its  own  loftiness  had  found  relief; 
A  noble  sorrow,  cherished  to  the  last, 
When  every  meaner  woe  had  long  been  past. 
Yes !  let  Affection  weep — no  common  tear 
She  sheds,  when  bending  o'er  a  hero's  bier. 
Let  Nature  mourn  the  dead — a  grief  like  this, 
To  pangs  that  rend  my  bosom,  had  been  bliss  1 " 

"  High-minded  maid  !  the  time  admits  not  now 
To  plead  my  cause,  to  vindicate  my  vow. 
That  vow,  too  dread,  too  solemn  to  recall, 
Hath  urged  me.onward,  haply  to  my  fall. 
Yet  this  believe — no  meaner  aim  inspires 
My  soul,  .no  dream  of  poor  ambition  fires 
No  !  every  hope  of  power,  of  triumph,  fled, 
Behold  me  but  the  avenger  of  the  dead  ! 
One  whose  changed  heart  no  tie,  no  kindred  knows, 
And  in  thy  love  alone  hath  sought  repose. 
Zayda  !  wilt  thou  his  stern  accuser  be  ? 
False  to  his  country,  he  is  true  to  thee  1 
Oh,  hear  me  yet ! — if  Hamet  e'er  was  dear, 
By  our  first  vows,  our  young  affection,  hear  ! 
Soon  must  this  fair  and  royal  city  fall, 
Soon  shall  the  cross  be  planted  on  her  wall  ; 
Then  who  can  tell  what  tides  of  blood  may  flow, 
While  her  fanes  echo  to  the  shrieks  of  woe  ? 
Fly,  fly  with  me,  and  let  me  bear  thee  far 
From  horrors  thronging  in  the  path  of  war  : 
Fly !  and  repose  in  safety — till  the  blast 
Hath  made  a  desert  in  its  course — and  passed  ! " 

"Thou  that  will  triumph  when  the  hour  is  come, 
Hastened  by  thee,  to  seal  thy  country's  doom, 
With  thee  from  scenes  of  death  shall  Zayda  fly 
To  peace  and  safety? — Woman,  too,  can  die! 
And  die  exulting,  though  unknown  to  fame, 
In  all  the  stainless  beauty  of  her  name  ! 
Be  mine,  unmurmuring,  undismayed,  to  share 
The  fate  my  kindred  and  my  sire  must  bear. 
And  deem  thou  not  my  feeble  heart  shall  fail, 
When  the  clouds  gather  and  the  blasts  assail. 
Thou  hast  but  known  me  ere  the  trying  hour 
Called  i«*to  life  **•;•,  *r.:,it's  latent  power; 


THE  ABEACEKKAGE.  8 1 


But  I  have  energies  that  idly  slept, 

While  withering  o'er  my  silent  woes  I  wept ; 

And  now,  when  hope  and  happiness  are  fled, 

My  soul  is  firm — for  what  remains  to  dread ! 

Who  shall  have  power  to  suffer  and  to  bear, 

If  strength  and  courage  dwell  not  with  Despair  ? 

Hamet,  farewell — retrace  thy  path  again, 
To  join  thy  brethren  on  the  tented  plain. 
There  wave  and  wood,  in  mingling  murmurs,  tell 
How,  in  far  other  cause,  thy  fathers  fell ! 
Yes  !  on  that  soil  hath  Glory's  footstep  been, 
Names  unforgotten  consecrate  the  scene ! 
Dwell  not  the  souls  of  heroes  round  thee  there, 
Whose  voices  call  thee  in  the  whispering  air? 
Unheard,  in  vain,  they  call — their  fallen  son 
Hath  stained  the  name  those  mighty  spirits  won, 
An-  to  the  hatred  of  the  brave  and  free 
Bequeathed  his  own,  through  ages  yet  to  be  ! 

Still  as  she  spoke,  the  enthusiast's  kindling  eye 
Was  lighted  up  with  inborn  majesty, 
While  her  fair  form  and  youthful  features  caught 
All  the  proud  grandeur  of  heroic  thought, 
Severely  beauteous ;  awe-struck  and  aninzed, 
In  silent  trance  a  while  the  warrior  gazed, 
As  on  some  lofty  vision — for  she  seemed 
One  all  inspired — each  'look  with  glory  beamed, 
While,  brightly  bursting  through  its  cloud  of  woes, 
Her  soul  at  once  in  all  its  light  arose. 
Oh  !  ne'er  had  Hamet  deemed  there  dwelt  enshrined 
In  form  so  fragile  that  unconquered  mind  ; 
And  fixed,  as  by  some  high  enchantment,  there 
He  stood — till  wonder  yielded  to  despair. 

"The  dream  is  vanished^daughl;r  of  my  foes'. 
Reft  of  each  hope,  the  lonely  wanderer  goes. 
Thy  words  have  pierced  his  soul — yet  deem  thou  not 
Thou  couldst  be  once  adored,  and  e'er  forgot  ! 
Oh,  formed  for  happier  love,  heroic  maid ! 
In  grief  sublime,  in  danger  undismayed, 
Farewell,  and  be  thou  blest ! — all  words  were  vain 
From  him  who  ne'er  may  view  that  form  again  : 
Him,  whose  sole  thought  resembling  bliss  must  be, 
He  hath  been  loved,  once  fondly  loved,  by  thee !  " 
And  is  the  warrior  gone  ? — doth  Zayda  hear 
His  parting  footstep,  and  without  a  lear  ? 
Thou  weepest  not,  lofty  maid  ! — yet  who  can  tell 
What  secret  pangs  within  thy  heart  may  dwell  ? 
They  feel  not  least,  the  firm,  the  high  in  soul, 
Who  best  each  feeling's  agony  control. 


82  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


Yes,  we  may  judge  the  measure  of  the  grief 

Which  finds  in  Misery's  eloquence  relief ; 

But  who  shall  pierce  those  depths  of  silent  woe 

Whence  breathes  no  .language,  whence  no  tears  may  flow  ? 

The  pangs  that  many  a  noble  breast  hath  proved, 

Scorning  itself  that  thus  it  could  be  moved  ? 

He,  He  alone,  the  inmost  heart  who  knows, 

Views  all  its  weakness,  pities  all  its  throes, 

He  who  hath  mercy  when  mankind  contemn, 

Beholding  anguish — all  unknown  to  them. 

Fair  city !  thou  that  midst  thy  stately  fanes 
And  gilded  minarets,  towering  o'er  the  plains, 
In  Eastern  grandeur  proudly  dost  arise 
Beneath  thy  canopy  of  deep-blue  skies; 
While  streams  that  bear  thee  treasures  in  their  wave, 
Thy  citron-groves  and  mvrtle-gardens  lave  : 
Mourn,  for  thy  doom  is  fixed — the  days  of  fear, 
Of  chains,  of  wrath,  of  bitterness,  are  near! 
Within,  around  thee,  are  the  trophied  graves 
Of  kings  and  chiefs — their  children  shall  be  slaves- 
Fair  are  thy  halls,  thy  domes  majestic  swell, 
But  there  a  race  that  reared  them  not  shall  dwell ; 
For  midst  thy  councils  Discord  still  presides, 
Degenerate  fear  thy  wavering  monarch  guides — 
Last  of  a  line  whose  regal  spirit  flown 
Hath  to  their  offspring  but  bequeathed  a  throne, 
Without  one  generous  thought,  or  feeling  high, 
To  teach  his  soul  how  kings  should  live  and  die. 

A  voice  resounds  within  Granada's  wall, 
The  hearts  of  warriors  echo  to  its  call. 
Whose  are  those  tones,  with  power  electric  fraught, 
To  reach  the  source  of  pure  exalted  thought ! 

See,  on  a  fortress  tower,  with  beckoning  hand, 
A  form,  majestic  as  a  prophet,  stand  ! 
His  mien  is  all  impassioned — and  his  eye 
Filled  with  a  light  whose  fountain  is  on  high ; 
Wild  on  the  gale  his  silvery  tresses  flow, 
And  inspiration  beams  upon  his  brow ; 
While,  thronging  round  him,  breathless  thousands  gaze, 
As  on  some  mighty  seer  of  elder  days. 

"  Saw  ye  the  banners  of  Castile  displayed, 
The  helmets  glittering,  and  the  line  arrayed  ? 
Heard  ye  the  march  of  steel-clad  hosts  ?  "  he  cries; 
"Children  of  conquerors  !  in  your  strength  arise  ! 
O  high-born  tribes  !  O  names  unstained  by  fear  ! 
Azarques,  Zegris,  Almoradis,  hear  ! 


THE   ABENCEKKAGE.  83 

Be  every  feud  forgotten,  and  your  hands 

Dyed  with  no  blood  but  that  of  hostile  bands. 

Wake,  princes  of  the  land  1  the  hour  is  come, 

And  the  red  sabre  must  decide  your  doom. 

Where  is  that  spirit  which  prevailed  of  yore, 

When  Tarik's  bands  o'erspread  the  western  shore  ? 

When  the  long  combat  raged  on  Xeres'  plain, 

And  Afric's  tecbir  swelled  through  yielding  Spain? 

Is  the  lance  broken,  is  the  shield  decayed, 

The  warrior's  arm  unstrung,  his  heart  dismayed  ? 

Shall  no  high  spirit  of  ascendant  wonh 

Arise  to  lead  the  sons  of  Islam  forth  ? 

To  guard  the  regions  where  our  fathers'  blood 

Hath  bathed  each  plain,  and  mingled  with  each  flood  J 

Where  long  their  dust  hath  blended  with  the  soil 

Won  by  their  swords,  made  fertile  by  their  toil ! 

"  O  ye  sierras  of  eternal  snow  ! 
Ye  streams  that  by  the  tombs  of  heroes  flow, 
Woods,  fountains,  rocks  of  Spain  !  ye  saw  their  might 
In  many  a  fierce  and  unforgotten  fight — 
Shall  ye  behold  their  lost,  degenerate  race, 
Dwell  'midst  your  scenes  in  fetters  and  disgrae 
With  each  memorial  of  the  past  around, 
Each  mighty  monument  of  days  renowned  ? 
May  this  indignant  heart  ere  then  be  cold, 
This  frame  be  gathered  to  its  kindred  mould  ! 
And  the  last  life-drop  circling  through  my  veins 
Have  tinged  a  soil  untainted  yet  by  chains  ! 

"And  yet  one  struggle  ere  our  doom  is  sealed, 
One  mighty  effort,  one  deciding  field  ! 
If  vain  each  hope,  we  still  have  choice  to  be, 
In  life  the  fettered,  or  in  death  the  free  !" 

Still  while  he  speaks,  each  gallant  heart  beats  high, 
And  ardor  flashes  from  each  kindling  eye  ; 
Youth,  manhood,  age,  as  if  inspired,  have  caught 
The  glow  of  lofty  hope  and  daring  thought, 
And  all  is  hushed  around — as  every  sense 
Dwelt  on  the  tones  of  that  wild  eloquence. 

But  when  his  voice  hath  ceased,  the  impetuous  cry 
Of  eager  thousands  bursts  at  once  on  high; 
Rampart,  and  rock,  and  fortress,  ring  around, 
And  fair  Alhambra's  inmost  halls  resound. 
"  Lead  us,  O  chieftain  !  lead  us  to  the  strife, 
To  fame  in  death,  or  liberty  in  life  ! " 
O  zeal  of  noble  hearts  !  in  vain  displayed! 
Now,  while  the  burning  spirit  of  the  brave 
Is  roused  to  energies  that  yet  might  save, 


84  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 

E'en  now,  enthusiasts  !  while  ye  rush  to  claim 
Your  glorious  trial  on  the  field  of  fame, 
Your  king  hath  yielded  !     Valor's  dream  is  o'er  ; 
Power,  wealth,  and  freedom,  are  your  own  no  more; 
And  for  your  children's  portion,  but  remains 
That  bitter  heritage — the  stranger's  chains. 


CANTO  III. 

"  Fermossi  al  fin  il  cor  che  balz6  tanto." 

HlPPOLITO    PlNDEMONTB. 

HEROES  of  elder  days  !  untaught  to  yield, 
Who  bled  for  Spain  on  many  an  ancient  field  ; 
Ye,  that  around  the  oaken  cross  of  yore 
Stood  firm  and  fearless  on  Asturia's  shore, 
And  with  your  spirit,  ne'er  to  be  subdued, 
Hallowed  the  wild  Cantabrian  solitude  ; 
Rejoice  amidst  your  dwellings  of  repose, 
In  the  last  chastening  of  your  Moslem  foes  ! 
Rejoice  ! — for  Spain,  arising  in  her  strength, 
Hath  burst  the  remnant  of  their  yoke  at  length, 
And  they,  in  turn,  the  cup  of  woe  must  drain. 
And  bathe  their  fetters  with  their  tears  in  vain. 
And  thou,  the  warrior  born  in  happy  hour, 
Valencia's  lord,  whose  name  alone  was  power, 
Theme  of  a  thousand  songs  in  days  gone  by, 
Conqueror  of  kings  !  exult,  O  Cid  !  on  high. 
For  still  'twas  thine  to  guard  thy  country's  weal, 
In  life,  in  death,  the  watcher  for  Castile  ! 

Thou,  in  that  hour  when  Mauritania's  bands 
Rushed  from  their  palmy  groves  and  burning  lands, 
E'en  in  the  realm  of  spirits  didst  retain 
A  patriot's  vigilance,  remembering  Spain ! 
Then,  at  deep  midnight,  rose  the  mighty  sound, 
By  Leon  heard,  in  shuddering  awe  profound, 
As  through  her  echoing  streets,  in  dread  array, 
Beings,  once  mortal,  held  their  viewless  way  : 
Voices  from  worlds  we  know  not — and  the  tread 
Of  marching  hosts,  the  armies  of  the  dead, 
Thou  and  thy  buried  chieftains — from  the  grave 
Then  did  thy  summons  rouse  a  king  to  save, 
And  join  thy  warriors  with  unearthly  might 
To  aid  the  rescue  in  Tolosa's  fight. 
Those  days  are  past — the  crescent  on  thy  shore, 
O  realm  of  evening  !  sets,  to  rise  no  more. 
What  banner  streams  afar  from  Vela's  tower? 
The  cross,  bright  ensign  of  Iberia's  power  1 


THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


What  the  glad  shout  of  each  exulting  voice? 

Castle  and  Aragon  !  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

Yielding  free  entrance  to  victorious  foes, 

The  Moorish  city  sees  her  gates  unclose, 

And  Spain's  proud  host,  with  pennon,  shield,  and  lance. 

Through  her  long  streets  in  knightly  garb  advance. 

Oh  !  ne'er  in  lofty  dreams  hath  Fancy's  eye 
Dwelt  on  a  scene  of  statelier  pageantry, 
At  joust  or  tourney,  theme  of  poet's  lore, 
High  masque,  or  solemn  festival  of  yore. 
The  gilded  cupolas,  that  proudly  rise 
O'erarched  by  cloudless  and  cerulean  skies  ; 
Tall  minarets,  shining  mosques,  barbaric  towers, 
Fountains,  and  palaces,  and  cypress  bowers  : 
And  they,  the  splendid  and  triumphant  throng, 
With  helmets  glittering  as  they  move  along 
With  broidered  scarf,  and  gem-bestudded  mail, 
And  graceful  plumage  streaming  on  the  gale  ; 
Shields,  gold-embossed,  and  pennons  floating  far, 
And  all  the  gorgeous  blazonry  of  war, 
All  brightened  by  the  rich  transpa'  ent  hues 
That  southern  suns  o'er  heaven  and  earth  diffuse; 
Blend  in  one  scene  of  glory,  formed  to  throw 
O'er  memory's  page  a  never-fading  glow. 
And  there,  too,  foremost  'midst  the  conquering  brave. 
Your  azure-plumes,  O  Aben-Zurrahs!  wave. 
There  Hanet  moves  ;  the  chief  wi  ose  lofty  port 
Seems  nor  reproach  to  shun,  nor  praise  to  court; 
Calm,  stern,  collected — yet  witl.in  his  breast 
Is  there  no  pang,  no  struggle,  unconfessed  ? 
If  such  there  be,  it  still  must  dwell  unseen, 
Nor  cloud  a  triumph  with  a  sufferer's  mien. 

Hear'st  thou  the  solemn  yet  exulting  sound 
Of  the  deep  anthem  floating  far  around  ? 
The  choral  voices,  to  the  skies  that  raise 
The  full  majestic  harmony  of  praise  ? 
Lo !  where,  surrounded  by  their  princely  train, 
They  come,  the  sovereigns  of  rejoicing  Spain, 
Borne  on  their  trophied  car— lo  !  bursting  thence 
A  blaze  of  chivalrous  magnificence  I 

Onward  their  slow  and  stately  course  they  bend 
To  where  the  Alhambra's  ancient  towers  ascend, 
Reared  and  adorned  by  Moorish  kings  of  yore, 
Whose  lost  descendants  there  shall  dwell  no  more. 

They  reached  those  towers — irregularly  vast 
And  rude  they  seem,  in  mould  barbaric  cast  : 
They  enter — to  their  wondering  sight  is  given 


86  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


A  genii  palace — an  Arabian  heaven  ! 

A  scene  by  magic  raised,  so  strange,  so  fair, 

Its  forms  and  color  seem  alike  of  air. 

Here,  by  sweet  orange-bows,  half  shaded  o'er, 

The  deep  clear  bath  reveals  its  marble  floor, 

Its  margin  fringed  with  flowers,  whose  glowing  hues 

The  calm  transparence  of  its  wave  suffuse. 

There,  round  the  court,  where  Moorish  arches  bend. 

Aerial  columns,  richly  decked,  ascend ; 

Unlike  the  models  of  each  classic  race, 

Of  Doric  grandeur,  or  Corinthian  grace, 

But  answering  well  each  vision  that  portrays 

Arabian  splendor  to  the  poet's  gaze  : 

Wild,  wondrous,  brilliant,  all — a  mingling  glow 

O£  rainbow-tints,  above,  around,  below ; 

Bright  streaming  from  the  many-tinctured  veins 

Of  precious  marble,  and  the  vivid  stains 

Of  rich  mosaics  o'er  the  light  arcade, 

In  gay  festoons  and  fairy  knots  displayed. 

On  through  the  enchanted  realm,  that  only  seems 

Meet  for  the  radiant  creatures  of  our  dreams, 

The  royal  conquerors  pass — while  still  their  sight 

On  some  new  wonder  dwells  with  fresh  delight. 

Here  the  eye  roves  through  slender  colonnades, 

O'er  bowery  terraces  and  myrtle  shades  ; 

Dark  olive-woods  beyond,  and  far  on  high 

The  vast  sierra  mingling  with  the  sky. 

There,  scattering  far  around  their  diamond  spray, 

Clear  streams  from  founts  of  alabaster  play, 

Through  pillared  halls,  where  exquisitely  wrought, 

Rich  arabesques,  with  glittering  foliage  fraught, 

Surmount  each  fretted  arch,  and  lend  the  scene 

A  wild  romantic,  Oriental  mien  : 

While  many  a  verse,  from  Eastern  bards  of  old, 

Borders  the  walls  in  characters  of  gold. 

Here  moslem  luxury,  in  her  own  domain, 

Hath  held  for  ages  her  voluptuous  reign 

'Midst  gorgeous  domes,  where  soon  shall  silence  brood 

And  all  be  lone — a  splendid  solitude. 

Now  wake  their  echoes  to  a  thousand  songs, 

From  mingling  voices  of  exulting  throngs  ; 

Tambour,  and  flute,  aud  atabal,  are  there, 

And  joyous  clarions  pealing  on  the  air ; 

While  every  hall  resounds,  "  Granada  won  I 

Granada  !  for  Castle  and  Aragon ! " 

'Tis  night — from  dome  and  tower,  in  dazzling  maze, 
The  festal  lamps  innumerably  blaze ; 
Through  long  arcades  the  quivering  lustre  gleams 
From  every  lattice  tremulously  streams, 
'Midst  orange-gardens  plays  on  fount  and  rill, 
And  gilds  the  waves  of  Darro  and  Xenil : 


THE  ABENCERRAGE.  87 

Red  flame  the  torches  on  each  minaret's  height, 
And  shines  each  street  an  avenue  of  light ; 
And  midnight  feasts  are  held,  and  music's  voice 
Through  the  long  night  still  summons  to  rejoice. 

Yet  there,  while  all  would  seem  to  heedless  eye 
One  blaze  of  pomp,  one  burst  of  revelry, 
Are  hearts  unsoothcd  by  those  delusive  hours, 
Galled  by  the.  chain,  though  decked  awhile  with  flowers ; 
Stern  passions  working  in  the  indignant  breast, 
Deep  pangs  untold,  high  teelings  unexpressed, 
Heroic  spirits,  unsubmitting  yet — 
Vengeance,  and  keen  remorse,  and  vain  regret. 

From  yon  proud  height,  whose  olive  shaded-brow 
Commands  the  wide,  luxuriant  plains  below, 
Who  lingering  gazes  o'er  the  lovely  scene, 
Anguish  and  shame  contending  in  his  mien  ? 
He,  who,  of  heroes  and  of  kings  the  son, 
Hath  lived  to  lose  whate'er  his  fathers  won  ; 
Whose  doubts  and  fears  his  people's  fate  have  sealed, 
Wavering  alike  in  council  and  in  field  ; 
Weak,  timid  ruler  of  the  wise  and  brave, 
Still  a  fierce  tyrant  cr  a  yielding  slave. 

Far  from  these  vine-clad  hills  and  azure  skies, 
To  Afric's  wilds  the  royal  exile  flies; 
Yet  pauses  on  his  way,  to  weep  in  vain 
O'er  all  he  never  must  behold  again. 
Fair  spreads  the  scene  around — for  him  too  fair, 
Each  glowing  charm  but  deepens  his  despair. 
The  Vega's  meads,  the  city's  glittering  spires, 
The  old  majestic  palace  of  his  sires, 
The  gay  pavilions,  and  retired  alcoves, 
Bosomed  in  citron  and  pomegranate  groves  ; 
Tower-crested  rocks,  and  streams  that  wind  in  light, 
All  in  one  moment  bursting  on  his  sight, 
Speak  to  his  soul  of  glory's  vanished  years, 
And  wake  the  source  of  unavailing  tears. 
— Weepest  thou,  Abdallah  ? — Thou  dost  well  to  weep, 
O  feeble  heart !  o'er  all  thou  couldst  not  keep  ! 
Well  do  a  woman's  tears  befit  the  eye 
Of  him  who  knew  not,  as  a  man,  to  die. 

The  gale  sighs  mournfully  through  Zayda's  Lower 
The  hand  is  gone  that  nursed  each  infant  flower. 
No  voice,  no  step,  is  in  her  father's  hails, 
Mute  are  the  echoes  of  their  marble  walls; 
No  stranger  enters  at  the  chieftain's  gate, 
But  all  is  hushed,  and  void,  .iv.d  desolate. 


88  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 

There,  through  each  tower  and  solitary  shade, 
In  vain  doth  Hamet  seek  the  Zagri  maid : 
Her  grove  is  silent,  her  pavilion  lone, 
Her  lute  forsaken,  and  her  doom  unknown ; 
And  through  the  scenes  she  loved,  unheeded  flows 
The  stream  whose  music  lulled  her  to  repose. 

But  oh  !  to  him,  whose  self-accusing  thought 
Whispers,  'twas  he  that  desolation  wrought — 
He,  who  his  country  and  his  faith  betrayed, 
And  lent  Castile  revengeful,  powerful  aid — 
A  voice  of  sorrow  swells  in  every  gale, 
Each  wave,  low  rippling,  tells  a  mournful  tale 
And  as  the  shrubs,  untended,  unconfined, 
In  wild  exuberance  rustle  to  the  wind  ; 
Each  leat  hath  language  to  his  startled  sense, 
And  seems  to  murmur,  "  Thou  hast  driven  her  hence! 
And  well  he  feels  to  trace  her  flight  were  vain, 
— Where  hath  lost  love  been  once  recalled  again? 
In  her  pure  breast,  so  long  by  anguish  torn, 
His  name  can  rouse  no  feeling  now  but  scorn. 
O  bitter  hour  !  when  first  the  shuddering  heart 
Wakes  to  behold  the  void  within — and  start ! 
To  feel  its  own  abandonment,  and  brood 
O'er  the  chill  bosom's  depth  of  solitude  : 
The  stormy  passions  that  in  Hamet's  breast 
Have  swayed  so  long,  so  fiercely,  are  at  rest; 
The  avenger's  task  is  closed : — he  finds,  too  late 
It  hath  not  changed  his  feelings,  but  his  fate. 
He  was  a  lofty  spirit,  turned  aside 
From  its  bright  path  by  woes,  and  wrongs,  and  pride. 
And  onward,  in  its  new  tumultuous  course, 
Borne  with  too  rapid  and  intense  a  force 
To  pause  one  moment  in  the  dread  career, 
And  ask — if  such  could  be  its  native  sphere  ? 
Now  are  those  days  of  wild  delirium  o'er, 
Their  fears  and  hopes  excite  his  soul  no  more ; 
The  feverish  energies  of  passion  close, 
And  his  heart  sinks  in  desolate  repose, 
Turns  sickening  from  the  world,  yet  shrinks  not  less 
From  its  own  deep  and  utter  loneliness. 

There  is  a  sound  of  voices  on  the  air, 
A  flash  of  armor  to  the  sunbeam's  glare, 
'Midst  the  wild  Alpuxarras  ; — there,  on  high, 
Where  mountain-snows  are  mingling  with  the  sky, 
A  few  brave  tribes,  with  spirit  yet  unbroke, 
Have  fled  indignant  from  the  Spaniard's  yoke. 

O  ye  dread  scenes !  where  Nature  dwells  alone, 
Severely  glorious  on  her  craggy  throne  ; 
Ye  citadels  of  rock,  gigantic  forms, 
Veiled  by  the  mist,  and  girdled  by  the  storms, — 


THE  ABEACEKKAGE. 


Ravines,  and  glens,  and  deep  resounding  caves, 
That  hold  communion  with  the  torrent-waves; 
And  ye,  the  unstained  and  everlasting  snows, 
That  dwell  above  in  bright  and  still  repose  ; 
To  you,  in  every  clime,  in  every  age, 
Far  from  the  tyrant's  or  the  conqueror's  rage, 
Hath  Freedom  led  her  sons  —  untired  to  keep 
Her  fearless  vigils  on  the  barren  steep. 
She,  like  the  mountain  eagle,  still  delights 
To  gaze  exulting  from  unconquered  heights, 
And  build  her  eyrie  in  defiance  proud, 
To  dare  the  wind,  and  mingle  with  the  cloud. 

.    Now  her  deep  voice,  the  soul's  awakener,  swells, 
Wild  Alpuxarras,  through  your  inmost  dells. 
There,  the  dark  glens  and  lonely  rocks  among, 
As  at  the  clarion's  call,  her  children  throng. 
She  with  enduring  strength  had  nerved  each  frame,  ' 
And  made  each  heart  the  temple  of  her  flame, 
Her  own  resisting  spirit,  which  shall  glow 
Unquenchably,  surviving  all  below. 

There  high-born  maids,  that  moved  upon  the  earth 
More  like  bright  creatures  of  aerial  birth, 
Nurslings  of  palaces,  have  fled  to  share 
The  fate  of  brothers  and  of  sires  ;  to  bear, 
All  undismayed,  privation  and  distress, 
And  smile  the  roses  of  the  wilderness: 
And  mothers  with  their  infants,  there  to  dwell 
In  the  deep  forest  or  the  cavern  cell, 
And  rear  their  offspring  'midst  the  rocks,  to  be, 
If  now  no  more  the  mighty,  still  the  free. 

And  'midst  that  band  are  veterans,  o'er  whose  head 
Sorrows  and  years  their  mingled  snow  have  shed  ? 
They  saw  thy  glory,  they  have  wept  thy  fall, 
O  royal  city  and  the  wreck  of  all 
They  loved  and  hallowed  most  :  —  doth  aught  remain 
For  these  to  prove  of  happiness  or  pain  ! 
Life's  cup  is  drained—  earth  fades  before  their  eye  ; 
Their  task  is  closing  —  they  have  but  to  die. 
Ask  ye,  why  fled  they  hither  ?  —  that  their  doom 
AJight  be,  to  sink  unfettered  to  the  tomb. 
And  vouth,  in  all  its  pride  of  strength,  is  there, 
And  buoyancy  of  spirit,  formed  to  dare 
And  suffer  all  things  —  fallen  on  evil  days, 
Yet  darting  o'er  the  world  an  ardent  gaze, 
As  on  the  arena  where  its  powers  may  find 
Full  scope  to  strive  for  glory  with  mankind. 
Such  are  the  tenants  of  the  mountain-hold, 
The  high  in  heart,  unconquercd,  uncontrolled  ° 


90  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


By  day,  the  huntsmen  of  the  wild — by  night, 

Unwearied  guardians  of  the  watch-fire's  light, 

They  from  their  bleak  majestic  home  have  caught 

A  sterner  tone  of  unsubmitting  thought, 

While  all  around  them  bids  the  soul  arise 

To  blend  with  Nature's  dread  sublimities. 

— But  these  are  lofty  dreams,  and  must  not  be 

Where  tyranny  is  near  : — the  bended  knee, 

The  eye  whose  glance  no  inborn  grandeur  fires, 

And  the  tamed  heart,  are  tributes  she  requires  ; 

Nor  must  the  dwellers  of  the  rock  look  down 

On  regal  conquerors,  and  defy  their  frqwn. 

What  warrior-band  is  toiling  to  explore 

The  mountain-pass,  with  pine-wood  shadowed  o'er, 

Startling  with  martial  sounds  each  rude  recess, 

Where  the  deep  echo  slept  in  loneliness ! 

These  are  the  sons  of  Spain  ! — Your  foes  are  near, 

O  exiles  of  the  wild  sierra  !  hear  ! 

Hear  !  wake  !  arise  !  and  from  your  inmost  caves 

Pour  like  the  torrent  in  its  might  of  waves  ! 

Who  leads  the  invaders  on? — his  features  bear 
The  deep-worn  traces  of  a  calm  despair ; 
Yet  his  dark  brow  is  haughty — and  his  eye 
Speaks  of  a  soul  that  asks  not  sympathy. 
"Tis  he  !  'tis  he  again !  the  apostate  chief ; 
He  comes  in  all  the  sternness  of  his  grief. 
He  comes,  but  changed  in  heart,  no  more  to  wield 
Falchion  for  proud  Castile  in  battle  field, 
Against  his  country's  children — though  he  leads 
Castilian  bands  again  to  hostile  deeds: 
His  hope  is  but  from  ceaseless  pangs  to  fly, 
To  rush  upon  the  Moslem  spears,  and  die. 
So  shall  remorse  and  love  the  heart  release, 
Which  dares  not  dream  of  joy,  but  sighs  for  peace. 
The  mountain  echoes  are  awake — a  sound 
Of  strife  is  ringing  through  the  rocks  around. 
Within  the  steep  defile  that  winds  between 
Cliffs  piled  on  cliffs,  a  dark,  terrific  scene, 
Where  Moorish  exile  and  Castilian  knight 
Are  wildly  mingling  in  the  serried  fight. 
Red  flows  the  foaming  streamlet  of  the  glen, 
Whose  bright  transparence  ne'er  was  stained  till  then : 
While  swell  the  war-note  and  the  clash  of  spears 
To  the  bleak  dwellings  of  the  mountaineers, 
Where  thy  sad  daughters,  lost  Granada  !  wait, 
In  dread  suspense,  the  tidings  of  their  fate. 
But  he — whose  spirit,  panting  for  its  rest, 
Would  fain  each  sword  concentrate  in  his  breast — 
Who,  where  a  spear  is  pointed,  or  a  lance 
Aimed  at  another's  breast,  would  still  advance — 


THE  ABENCKRRAGE. 


Courts  death  in  vain;  each  weapon  glances  by, 
As  if  for  him  'twere  bliss  too  great  to  die. 
Yes,  Aben-Zurrah  !  there  are  deeper  woes 
Reserved  for  thee  ere  Nature's  last  repose  ; 
Thou  knowcst  not  yet  what  vengeance  fate  can  wreak, 
Nor  all  the  heart  can  suffer  ere  it  break. 
Doubtful  and  long  the  strife,  and  bravely  fell 
The  sons  of  battle  in  that  narrow  dell  ; 
Youth  in  its  light  of  beauty  there  hath  past, 
And  age,  the  weary,  found  repose  at  last; 
Till,  few  and  faint,  the  Moslem  tribes  recoil, 
Borne  down  by  numbers,  and  o'erpowered  by  toil. 
Dispersed,  disheartened,  through  the  pass  they  fly, 
Pierce  the  deep  wood,  or  mount  the  cliff  on  high ; 
While  Harriet's  band  in  wonder  gaze,  nor  dare 
Track  o'er  their  dizzy  path  the  footsteps  of  despair. 

Yet  he,  to  whom  each  danger  hath  become 
A  dark  delight,  and  every  wild  a  home, 
Still  urges  onward — undismayed  to  tread 
Where  life's  fond  lovers  would  recoil  with  dread. 
But  fear  is  for  the  happy — they  may  shrink 
From  the  steep  precipice,  or  torrent's  brink  ; 
They  to  whom  earth  is  paradise — their  doom 
Lends  no  stem  courage  to  approach  the  tomb : 
Not  such  his  lot,  who  schooled  by  fate  severe, 
Wrere  but  too  blest  if  aught  remained  to  fear. 
Up  the  rude  crags,  whose  giant  masses  throw 
Eternal  shadows  o'er  the  glen  below ; 
And  by  the  fall,  whose  miny-tinctured  spray 
Half -in  a  mist  of  radiance  veils  its  way, 
He  holds  his  venturous  track : — supported  now 
By  some  o'erhanging  pine  or  ilex  bough; 
Now  by  some  jutting  stone,  that  seems  to  dwell 
Half  in  mid-air,  as  balanced  by  a  spell. 
Now  hath  his  footstep  gained  the  summit's  head, 
A  level  span,  with  emerald  verdure  spread, 
A  fairy  circle — there  the  heath-flowers  rise. 
And  the  rock-rose  unnoticed  blooms  and  dies ; 
And  brightly  plays  the  stream,  ere  yet  its  tide 
In  foam  and  thunder  cleave  the  mountain-side  ; 
But  all  is  wild  beyond — and  Hamet's  eye 
Roves  o'er  a  world  of  rude  sublimity. 
That  dell  beneath,  where  e'en  at  noon  of  day 
Earth's  chartered  guest,  the  sunbeam,  scarce  can  stray 
Around,  untrodden  woods ;  and  far  above, 
Where  mortal  footstep  ne'er  may  hope  to  rove, 
Bare  granite  cliffs,  whose  fixed,  inherent  dyes 
Rival  the  tints  that  float  o'er  summer  skies  ; 
And  the  pure  glittering  snow-realm,  yet  more  high, 
That  seems  a  part  of  Heaven's  eternity. 


92  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 

There  is  no  track  of  man  where  Hamet  stands, 
Pathless  the  scene  as  Lybia's  desert  sands  ; 
Yet  on  the  calm  still  air  a  sound  is  heard 
Of  distant  voices,  and  the  gathering-word 
Of  Islam's  tribes,  now  faint  and  fainter  grown, 
Now  but  the  lingering  echo  of  a  tone. 

That  sound,  whose  cadence  dies  upon  his  ear 
He  follows,  reckless  if  his  bands  are  near. 
On  by  the  rushing  stream  his  way  he  bends, 
And  through  the  mountain's  forest  zone  ascends ; 
Piercing  the  still  and  solitary  shades 
Of  ancient  pine,  and  dark  luxuriant  glades, 
Eternal  twilight's  reign  : — those  mazes  past, 
The  glowing  sunbeams  meet  his  eyes  at  last, 
And  the  lone  wanderer  now  hath  reached  the  source 
-       Whence  the  wave  gushes,  foaming  on  its  course. 
But  there  he  pauses — for  the  lonely  scene 
Towers  in  such  dread  magnificence  of  mien, 
And,  mingled  oft  with  some  wild  eagle's  cry, 
From  rock-built  eyrie  rushing  to  the  sky, 
So  deep  the  solemn  and  majestic  sound 
Of  forests,  and  of  waters  murmuring  round — 
That,  rapt  in  wondering  awe,  his  heart  forgets 
Its  fleeting  struggles  and  its  vain  regrets. 
— What  earthly  feeling  unabashed  can  dwell 
In  Nature's  mighty  presence  ? — 'midst  the  swell 
Of  everlasting  hills,  the  roar  of  floods, 
And  frown  of  rocks,  and  pomp  of  waving  woods  ? 
These  their  own  grandeur  on  the  soul  impress, 
And  bid  each  passion  feel  its  nothingness. 

'Midst  the  vast  marble  cliffs,  a  lofty  ca\'e 
Rears  its  broad  arch  beside  the  rushing  wave ; 
Shadowed  by  giant  oaks,  and  rude  and  lone, 
It  seems  the  temple  of  some  power  unknown, 
Where  earthly  being  may  not  dare  intrude 
To  pierce  the  secrets  of  the  solitude. 
Yet  thence  at  intervals  a  voice  of  wail 
Is  rising,  wild  and  solemn,  on  the  gale 
Did  thy  heart  thrill,  O  Hamlet!  at  the  tone  ? 
Came  it  not  o'e<r  thee  as  a  spirit's  moan  ? 
As  some  loved  sound,  that  long  from  earth  had  fled, 
The  unforgotten  accents  of  the  dead  ? 
E'en  thus  it  rose — and  springing  from  his  trance 
His  eager  footsteps  to  the  sound  advance. 
He  mounts  the  cliffs,  he  gains  the  cavern  floor ; 
Its  dark  green  moss  with  blood  is  sprinkled  o'er : 
He  rushes  on — and  lo !  where  Zayda  rends 
Her  locks,  as  o'er  her  slaughtered  sire  she  bends 
Lost  in  despair ; — yet,  as  a  step  draws  nigh, 
Disturbing  sorrow's  lonely  sanctity. 


TIIK  ACENCERRAGE.  93 


She  lifts  her  head,  and,  all-subdued  by  grief, 
Views  with  a  wild  sad  smile  the  once-loved  chief; 
While  rove  her  thoughts,  unconscious  of  the  past, 
And  every  woe  forgetting — but  the  last. 

"  Comest  thou  to  weep  with  me  ? — for  I  am  left 
Alone  on  earth,  of  every  tie  bereft. 
Low  lies  the  warrior  on  his  blood-stained  bier; 
His  child  may  call,  but  he  no  more  shall  hear. 
He  sleeps — but  never  shall  those  eyes  unclose ; 
'Twas  not  my  voice  that  lulled  him  to  repose  ; 
Nor  can  it  break  his  slumbers. — Dost  thou  mourn  ? 
And  is  thy  heart,  like  mine,  with  anguish  torn  ? 
Weep,  and  my  soul  a  joy  of  grief  shall  know, 
That  o'er  his  grave  my  tears  with  Hamet's  flow  !  " 

But  scarce  her  voice  had  breathed  that  well-known  name 
When,  swiftly  rushing  o'er  her  spirit,  came 
Each  dark  remembrance — by  affliction's  power 
Awhile  effaced  in  that  o'erwhelming  hour, 
To  wake  with  tenfold  strength:  'twas  then  her  eye 
Resumed  its  light,  her  mien  its  majesty, 
And  o'er  her  wasted  cheek  a  burning  glow 
Spreads,  while  her  lips'  indignant  accents  flow. 

"  Away  !  I  dream  !     Oh,  how  hath  sorrow's  might 
Bowed  down  my  soul,  and  quenched  its  native  light- 
That  I  should  thus  forget !  and  bid  thy  tear 
With  mine  be  mingled  o'er  a  father's  bier  1 
Did  he  not  perish,  haply  by  thy  hand, 
In  the  last  Combat  with  thy  ruthless  band  ? 
The  morn  beheld  that  conflict  of  despair  : — 
'Twas  then  he  fell — he  fell ! — and  thou  wert  there — 
Thou  !  who  thy  country's  children  hast  pursued 
To  their  last  refuge  'midst  these  mountains  rude. 
Was  it  for  this  I  loved  thee  ? — Thou  hast  taught 
My  soul  all  grief,  all  bitterness  of  thought! 
'Twill  soon  be  past — I  bow  to  heaven's  decree, 
Which  bade  each  pang  be  ministered  by  thee." 

"  I  had  not  deemed  that  aught  remained  below 
For  me  to  prove  of  yet  untasted  woe  ; 
But  thus  to  meet  thee,  Zayda  !  can  impart 
One  more,  one  keener  agony  of  heart. 
Oh,  hear  me  yet ! — I  would  have  died  to  save 
My  foe,  but  still  thy  father,  from  the  grave, 
But,  in  the  fierce  confusion  of  the  strife, 
In  my  own  stern  despair  and  scorn  of  life, 
Borne  wildly  on,  I  saw  not,  knew  not  aught, 
Save  that  to  perish  there  in  vain  I  sought. 


94  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


And  let  me  share  thy  sorrows ! — hadst  thou  known 
All  I  have  felt  in  silence  and  alone, 
E'en  thou  mightst  then  relent,  and  deem,  at  last, 
A  grief  like  mine  might  expiate  all  the  past 

"  But  oh  !  for  thee,  the  loved  and  precidus  flower, 
So  fondly  reared  in  luxury's  guarded  bower, 
From  every  danger,  every  storm  secured, 
How  hast  thmi  suffered  !  whaf  hast  thou  endured  ! 
Daughter  of  palaces  !  and  can  it  be 
That  this  bleak  desert  is  a  home  for  thee  ! 
These  rocks  thy  dwelling !  thou,  who  shouldst  have  known 
Of  life  the  sunbeam  and  the  smile  alone  I 
Oh,  yet  forgive  !  be  all  my  guilt  forgot, 
Nor  bid  me  leave  thee  to  so  rude  a  lot ! " 

"That  lot  is  fixed  ;  'twere  fruitless  to  repine 
Still  must  a  gulf  divide  my  fate  from  thine, 
I  may  forgive — but  not  at  will  the  heart 
Can  bid  its  dark  remembrances  depart. 
No,  Hamet,  no  ! — too  deeply  are  these  traced, 
Yet  the  hour  comes  when  all  shall  be  effaced  ! 
Not  long  on  earth,  not  long,  shall  Zayda  keep 
Her  lonely  vigils  o'er  the  grave  to  weep  : 
E'en  now,  prophetic  of  my  early  doom, 
Speaks  to  my  soul  a  presage  of  the  tomb  ; 
And  ne'er  in  vain  did  hopeless  mourner  feel 
That  deep  foreboding  o'er  the  bosom  steal ! 
Soon  shall  I  slumber  calmly  by  the  side 
Of  him  for  whom  I  lived,  and  would  have  died ; 
Till  then,  one  thought  shall  soothe  my  orphan  lot, 
In  pain  and  peril — I  forsook  him  not. 

*  And  now,  farewell ! — behold  the  summer-day 
Is  passing,  like  the  dreams  of  life,  away. 
Soon  will  the  tribe  of  him  who  sleeps  draw  nigh, 
With  the  last  rites  his  bier  to  sanctify. 
Oh,  yet  in  time,  away  !  'twere  not  my  prayer 
Could  move  their  hearts  a  foe  like  thee  to  spare! 
This  hour  they  come — and  dost  thou  scorn  to  fly  ? 
Save  me  that  one  last  pang — to  see  thee  die  ! " 
E'en  while  she  speaks  is  heard  their  echoing  tread ; 
Onward  they  move,  the  kindred  of  the  dead. 
They  reach  the  cave — they  enter — slow  their  pace, 
And  calm,  deep  sadness  marks  each  mourner's  face 
And  all  is  hushed,  till  he  who  seems  to  wait 
In  silent,  stern  devotedness,  his  fate, 
Hath  met  their  glance — then  grief  to  fury  turns  ; 
Each  mien  is  changed,  each  eye  indignant  burns  : 
And  voices  rise,  and  swords  have  left  their  sheath, 
Blood  must  atone  for  blood  and  death  for  death  1 


THE  ABENCCRttAGE.  95 


They  close  around  him  :  lofty  still  his  mien, 
His  cheek  unaltered,  and  his  brow  serene. 
Unheard,  or  heard  in  vain,  is  Zayda's  cry : 
Fruitless  her  prayer,  unmarked  her  agony. 
But  as  his  foremost  foes  their  weapons  bend 
Against  the  life  he  seeks  not  to  defend, 
Wildly  she  darts  between — each  feeling  past, 
Save  strong  affection,  which  prevails  at  last. 
Oh,  not  in  vain  its  daring ! — for  the  blow 
Aimed  at  his  heart  hath  bade  her  life-blood  flow ; 
And  she  hath  sunk  a  martyr  on  the  breast, 
Where,  in  that  hour,  her  head  may  calmly  rest, 
For  he  is  saved!     Behold  the  Zegri  band, 
Pale  with  dismay  and  grief,  around  her  stand : 
While,  every  thought  of  hate  and  vengeance  o'er, 
They  weep  for  her  who  soon  shall  weep  no  more. 
She,  she  alone  is  calm  : — a  fading  smile, 
Like  sunset,  passes  o'er  her  cheek  the  while ; 
And  in  her  eye,  ere  yet  it  closes,  dwell 
Those  last  faint  rays,  the  parting  soul's  farewell. 

"  Xow  is  the  conflict  past,  and  I  have  proved 
How  well,  how  deeply  thou  hast  been  beloved! 
Yes  !  in  an  hour  like  this  'twere  vain  to  hide 
The  heart  so  long  and  so  severely  tried  : 
Still  to  thy  name  that  heart  hath  fondly  thrilled, 
But  sterner  duties  called — and  were  fulfilled : 
And  I  am  blest ! — To  every  holier  tie 
My  life  was  faithful, — and  for  thee  I  die ! 
Nor  shall  the  love  so  purified  be  vain ; 
Severed  on  earth,  we  yet  shall  meet  again. 
Farewell ! — And  ye,  at  Zayda's  dying  prayer, 
.Spare  him,  my  kindred  tribe  !  forgive  and  spare ! 
Oh !  be  his  guilt  forgotten  in  his  woes, 
While  I,  beside  my  sire,  in  peace  repose." 

Now  fades  her  cheek,  her  voice  hath  sunk,  and  death 
Sits  in  her  eye,  and  struggles  in  her  breath. 
One  pang — 'tis  past — her  task  on  earth  is  done, 
And  the  pure  spirit  to  its  rest  hath  flown. 
But  he  for  whom  she  died — Oh  !  who  may  paint 
The  grief,  to  which  all  other  woes  were  faint  ? 
There  is  no  power  in  language  to  impart 
The  deeper  pangs,  the  ordeals  of  the  heart, 
By  the  dread  Searcher  of  the  soul  surveyed; 
These  have  no  words — nor  are  by  words  portrayed. 

A  dirge  is  rising  on  the  mountain-air, 
Whose  fitful  swells  its  plaintive  murmurs  bear 
Fai  o'er  the  Alpuxarras ;  wild  its  tone, 
And  rocks  and  caverns  echo,  "  Thou  art  gone  !  " 


£)6  THE  ABENCERRAGE. 

Daughter  of  heroes  !  thou  art  gone 

To  share  his  tomb  who  gave  thee  birth  ; 
Peace  to  the  lovely  spirit  flown  ! 

It  was  not  formed  for  earth. 
Thou  wert  a  sunbeam  in  thy  race, 
Which  brightly  passed,  and  left  no  trace. 
But  calmly  sleep  ! — for  thou  art  free, 

And  hands  unchained  thy  tomb  shall  raise. 
Sleep  !  they  are  closed  at  length  for  thee, 

Life's  few  and  evils  days  ! 
Nor  shalt  thou  watch,  with  tearful  eye, 
The  lingering  death  of  liberty. 
Flower  of  the  desert !  thou  thy  bloom 

Didst  early  to  the  storm  resign  : 
\Ve  bear  it  still — and  dark  their  doom 

Who  cannot  weep  for  thine  ! 
For  us,  whose  every  hope  is  fled, 
The  time  is  past  to  mourn  the  dead. 
The  days  have  been  when  o'er  thy  bier 

Far  other  strains  than  these  had  flowed  \ 
Now,  as  a  home  from  grief  and  fear, 

We  hail  thy  dark  abode  ! 
We,  who  but  linger  to  bequeath 
Our  sons  the  choice  of  chains  or  death. 
Thou  art  with  those,  the  free,  the  brave, 

The  mighty  of  departed  years ; 
And  for  the  slumberers  of  the  grave 

Our  fate  hath  left  no  tears. 
Though  loved  and  lost,  to  weep  were  vain 
For  thee,who  ne'er  shalt  weep  again. 
Have  we  not  seen,  despoiled  by  foes, 

The  land  our  fathers  won  of  yore  ? 
And  is  there  yet  a  pang  for  those 

Who  gaze  on  this  no  more  ? 
Oh,  that  like  them  'twere  ours  to  rest ! 
Daughter  of  heroes  !  thou  art  blest  1 

A  few  short  years,  and  in  the  loneiy  cave 
Where  sleeps  the  Zegri  maid,  is  Hamet's  grave. 
Severed  in  life,  united  in  the  tomb — 
Such,  of  the  hearts  that  loved  so  well,  the  doom  I 
Their  dirge,  of  woods  and  waves  the  eternal  moan  • 
Their  sepulchre,  the  pine-clad  rocks  alone. 
And  oft  beside  the  midnight  watch-fire's  blaze, 
Amidst  those  rocks,  in  long  departed  days 
(When  freedom  fled,  to  hold,  sequestered  there, 
The  stern  and  lofty  councils  of  despair), 
Some  exiled  Moor,  a  warrior  of  the  wild, 
Who  the  lone  hours  with  mournful  strains  beguiled, 
Hath  taught  his  mountain-home  the  tale  of  those 
Who  thus  have  suffered,  and  who  thus  repose. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  CRESCENTIUS. 


'  In  the  reign  of  Otho  III.,  Emperor  of  Germany,  the  Romans,  excited  by  their  Consul, 
Crescentius,  who  ardently  desired  to  restore  the  ancient  glory  of  the  Republic,  made  a  bold  at- 
tempt to  shake  off  the  Saxon  yoke,  and  the  authority  of  the  Popes,  whose  vices  rendered  them 
objects  of  universal  contempt.  The  Consul  was  besieged  by  Otho  in  the  Mole  of  Hadrian, 
which  long  afterwards  continued  to  be  called  the  Tower  of  Crescentius.  Otho,  after  many  ur." 
availing  attacks  upon  this  fortress,  at  last  entered  into  negotiations ;  and,  pledging  his  imperial 
word  to  respect  the  life  of  Crescentius,  and  the  rights  of  the  Roman  citizens,  the  unfortunate 
leader  was  betrayed  into  his  power,  and  immediately  beheaded,  with  many  of  his  partisans. 
Stephania,  his  widow,  concealing  her  affliction  and  her  resentment  for  the  insults  to  which  she 
had  been  exposed,  secretly  resolved  to  revenge  her  husband  and  herself.  On  the  return  of  Otho 
from  a  pilgrimage  to  Mount  Gargano,  "vhich,  perhaps,  a  feeling  of  remorse  had  induced  him  to 
undertake,  she  found  means  to  be  introduced  to  him,  and  to  gain  his  confidence  ;  and  a  poison 
idministered  by  her  was  soon  afterwards  the  cause  of  bis  painful  death." — See  SISMONDI, 
^fistory  of  the  Italian  Republics,  vol.  i. 


'  L'orage  peut  briser  en  un  moment  les  fleurs  qui  tiennent  encore  la  t6te  levee." 

MAD.  DE  STAHL. 


•MIDST  Tivoli's  luxuriant  glades, 
Bright-foaming  falls,  and  olive  shades, 
Where  dwelt,  in  days  departed  long, 
The  sons  of  battle  and  of  song, 
No  tree,  no  shrub  its  foliage  rears, 
But  o'er  the  wrecks  of  other  years, 
Temples  and  domes,  which  long  have 

been 
The  soil  of  that  enchanted  scene. 

There  the  wild  fig-tree  and  the  vine 
O'er  Hadrian's  mouldering  villa  twine  ; 
The  cypress,  in  funereal  grace, 
Usurps  the  vanished  column's  place  ; 
O'er  fallen  shrine  and  ruined  frieze 
The  wall-flower  rustles  in  the  breeze  ; 
Acanthus-leaves  the  marble  hide 
They  once  adorned  in  sculptured  pride  ; 
And  nature  hath  resumed  her  throne 
O'er  the  vast  works  of  ages  flown. 

Was  it  for  this  that  many  a  pile, 
Pride  of  Ilissus  and  of  Nile, 
To  Anio's  banks  the  image  lent 
Of  each  imperial  monument  ? 
Now  Athens  weeps  her  shattered  fanes, 
Thy  temples,  Egypt,  strew  thy  plains; 


And  the  proud  fabrics  Hadrian  reared 
From  Tibur's  vale  have  disappeared. 
We  need  no  prescient  sibyl  there 
The  doom  of  grandeur  to  declare ; 
Each  stone,  where  weeds  and  ivy  climb, 
Reveals  some  oracle  of  Time; 
Each  relic  utters  Fate's  decree, 
The  future  as  the  past  shall  be. 

Halls  of  the  dead  !  in  Tibur's  vale, 
Who  now  shall  tell  your  lofty  tale? 
Who  trace  the  high  patrician's  dome, 
The  bard's  retreat,  the  hero's  home  ? 
When  moss-clad  wrecks  alone  record 
There  dwelt  the  world's  departed  lord, 
In  scenes  where  verdure's  rich  array 
Still  sheds  young  beauty  o'er  decay, 
And  sunshine  on  each  glowing  hill, 
'Midst  ruins  finds  a  dwelling  still. 

Sunk  is  thy  palace — but  thy  tomb, 
Hadrian  !  hath  shared  a  prouder  doom. 
Though  vanished  with  the  days  of  old 
Its  pillars  of  Corinthian  mould  : 
And     the     fair     forms    by    sculpture 

wrought, 

Each  bodying  some  immortal  thought, 
(97) 


THE  WIDOW  OF  CRESCENTIUS. 


Which,  o'er  that  temple  of  the  dead, 
Serene  but  solemn  beauty  shed, 
Have  found,  like  glory's  self,  a  grave 
In  Time's  abyss,  or  Tiber's  wave  : 
Vet  dreams  more  lofty  and  more  fair 
Than  art's  bold  hand  hath  imaged  e'er, 
High  thoughts  of  many  a  mighty  mind, 
Expai  ding  when  all  else  declined, 
In  tuiiight  years,  when  only  they 
Recalled  the  radiance  passed  away, 
Have  made  thai  ancient  pile  their  home, 
Fortress  of  freedom  and  of  Rome. 

There  he,  who  strove  in  evil  days 
Again  to  kindle  glory's  rays, 
Whose  spirit  sought  a  path  of  light, 
For  those  dim  ages  far  too  bright, — 
Crescentius  long  maintained  the  strife 
Which  closed  but  with  its  martyr's  life, 
And  left  the  imperial  tomb  a  name, 
A  heritage  of  holier  fame, 
There  closed  De  Brescia's  mission  high, 
From  thence  the  patriot  came  to  die  ; 
And  thou,  whose  Roman  soul  the  last 
Spoke  with  the  voice  of  ages  past, 
Whose  thoughts   so  long  from  earth 

had  fled, 

To  mingle  with  the  glorious  dead, 
That  'midst  the  world's  degenerate  race 
They  vainly  sought  a  dwelling-place. 
Within  that  house  of  death  didst  brood 
O'er  visions  to  thy  ruin  wooed. 
Yet,  worthy  of  a  brighter  lot, 
Rienzi,  be  thy  faults  forgot ! 
For  thou,  when  ail  around  thee  lay 
Chained  in  the  slumbers  of  decay — 
So  sunk  each  heart,  that  mortal  eye 
Had  scarce  a  tear  for  liberty — 
Alone,  amidst  the  darkness  there, 
Couldst  gaze  on   Rome — yet  not  de- 
spair ! 

'Tis  morn,  and  Nature's  richest  dyes 
Are  floating  o'er  Italian  skies  ; 
Tints  of  transparent  lustre  shine 
Along  the  snow  clad  Apennine; 
The  clouds  have  left  Soracte's  height, 
And  yellow  Tiber  winds  in  light, 
Where  tombs    and  fallen  fanes   have 

strewed 

The  wide  Carhpagna's  solitude, 
Tis  sad  amidst  that  scence  to  trace 
Those  relics  of  a  vanished  race  ; 


Yet  o'er  the  ravaged  path  of  time — 
Such  glory  sheds  that  brilliant  clime, 
Where   Nature   still,  though  empires 

fall, 

Holds  her  triumphant  festival — 
E'en  Desolation  wears  a  smile, 
Where  skies  and  sunbeams  laugh  the 

while  ; 
And  heaven's  own  light,  earth's  richest 

bloom, 
Array  the  ruin  and  the  tomb. 

But  she,  who  from  yon  convent  tower 
Breathes  the  pure  freshness  of  the  hour ; 
She,  whose  rich  flow  of  raven  hair 
Streams  wildly  on  the  morning  air, 
Heeds  not  how  fair  the  scene  below, 
Robed  in  Italia's  brightest  glow. 
Though  throned  'mklst  Latium's  classic 

plains 

The  Eternal  City's  towers  and  fanes, 
And  they,  the  Pleiades  of  earth, 
The  seven  proud  hills  of  Empire's  birth. 
Lie  spread  beneath  :  not  now  her  glance 
Roves  o'er  that  vast  sublime  expanse. 
Inspired,   and  bright  with    hope,   'til 

thrown 

On  Adrian's  massy  tomb  alone  : 
There,  from  the  storm,  when  Freedom 

fled, 

His  faithful  few  Crescentius  led  ; 
While  she,  his  anxious  bride,  who  now 
Bends  o'er  the  scene  her  youthful  brow, 
Sought  refuge  in  the  hallowed  fane, 
Which  then  could  shelter,  not  in  vain. 

But  now  the  lofty  strife  is  o'er, 
And  liberty  shall  weep  no  more. 
At  length  imperial  Otho's  voice 
Bids  her  devoted  sons  rejoice  ; 
And  he,  who  battled  to  restore 
The  glories  and  the  rights  of  yore, 
Whose  accents,  like  the  clarion's  sound; 
Could  burst  the  dead  repose  around, 
Again  his  native  Rome  shall  see, 
The  sceptred  city  of  the  free  ! 
And  young  Stephania  waits  the  hour 
When  leaves  her  lord  his  fortress  tower, 
Her  ardent  heart  with  joy  elate, 
That  seems  beyond  the  reach  of  fate  ; 
Her  mien,  like  creature  from  above, 
All  vivified  with  hope  and  love. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  CRESCENTIUS. 


99 


Fair  is  her  form,  and  in  her  eye 
Lives  all  the  soul  of  Italy ; 
A  meaning  lofty  and  inspired, 
As  by  her  native  day-star  fired  ; 
Such  wild  and  high  expression,  fraught 
With  glances  of  impassioned  thought, 
As  fancy  sheds,  in  visions  bright, 
O'er  priestess  of  the  God  of  Light ; 
And  the  dark  locks  that  lend  her  face 
A  youthful  and  luxuriant  grace, 
Wave  o'er  her  cheek,  whose  kindling 

dyes 

Seem  from  the  fire  within  to  rise, 
liut  deepened  by  the  burning  heaven 
To  her  own  land  of  sunbeams  given. 
Italian  art  that  fervid  glow 
Would  o'er  ideal  beauty  throw, 
And  with  such  ardent  life  express 
Her   high- wrought  dreams   of    loveli- 
ness,— 

Dreams  which,  surviving  Empire's  fall, 
The  shade  of  glory  still  recall. 

But  see  ! — the  banner  of  the  brave 
O'er  Adrian's  tomb  hath  ceased  to  wave. 
"Tis  lowered — and  now  Stephania's  eye 
Can  well  the  martial  train  descry, 
\Vh'>,  issuing  from  that  ancient  dome, 
I'uur  through  the  crowded  streets  of 

Rome. 
Now   from   her   watch-tower    on    the 

height, 
With   step   as    fabled    wood-nymph's 

light, 

She  flies — and  swift  her  way  pursues, 
Through  the  lone  convent's  avenues. 
Dark  cypress  groves,  and  fields  o'er- 

spread 

With  records  of  the  conquering  dead, 
And  paths  which  track  a  glowing  waste, 
She  traverses  in  breathless  haste  ; 
And  by  the  tombs  where  dust  is  shrined, 
Once  tenanted  by  loftiest  mind, 
Still  passing  on,  hath  reached  the  gate 
Of  Rome,  the  proud,  the  desolate  ! 
Thronged  are  the  streets,  and,  still   re- 
newed, 
Rush  on  the  gathering  multitude. 

Is  it  their  high-souled  chief  to  greet, 
That  thus  the  Roman  thousands  meet  ? 


With  names  that   bid   their   thoughts 

ascend, 

Crescentius,  thine  in  song  to  blend; 
And  of  triumphal  days  gone  by 
Recall  the  inspiring  pageantry  ? 
— There  is  an  air  of  breathless  dread, 
An  eager  glance,  a  hurrying  tread  ; 
And  now  a  fearful  silence  round, 
And  now  a  fitful  murmuring  sound, 
'Midst   the  pale   crowds,  that  almos' 

seem 

Phantoms  of  some  tumultuous  dream. 
Quick  is  each  step,  and  wild  each  mien, 
Portentous  of  some  awful  scene. 
Bride  of  Crescentius  !  as  the  throng 
Bore  thee  with  whelming  force  along, 
How  did  thine  anxious  heart  beat  high, 
Till  rose  suspense  to  agony  !— 
Too  brief  suspense,   that   soon   shall 

close, 
And  leave  thy  heart  to  deeper  woes. 

Who  'midst   yon  guarded   precinct 

stands, 

With  fearless  mien,  but  fettered  hands 
The  ministers  of  death  are  nigh, 
Yet  a  calm  grandeur  lights  his  eye; 
And  jn  his  glance  there  lives  a  mind 
Which  was  not  formed  for  chains  to 

bind, 

But  cast  in  such  heroic  mould 
As  theirs,  the  ascendant  ones~of  old. 
Crescentius  !  freedom's  daring  son, 
Is  this  the  guerdon  thou  hast  won  ? 
O  worthy  to  have  lived  and  died 
In  Fiie  bright  days  of  Latium's  pride ! 
Thus  must  the  beam  of  glory  close 
O'er  the  seven  hills  again  that  rose, 
When  at  thy  voice,  to  burst  the  yoke, 
The  soul  of  Rome  indignant  woke  ? 
Vain  dream !  the   sacred   shields   arc 

gone, 

Sunk  is  the  crowning  city's  throne' 
The  illusions,  that  around  her  cast 
Their  guardian  spells,  have  long  been 

past. 

Thy  life  hath  been  a  short-star's  ray, 
Shed  o'er  her  midnight  of  decay ; 
Thy  death  at  freedom's  ruined  shrine 
Must  rivet  every  chain — but  thine. 

Calm  is  his  aspect,  and  his  eye 
Now  fixed  upon  the  deep-blue  sky, 


100 


THE   U'lDJlV  OF  CRESCEMTIUS. 


Now  on  those  wrecks  of  ages  fled, 
Around  in  desolation  spread — 
Arch,  temple,  column,  worn  and  gray, 
Recording  triumphs  passed  away; 
Works  of  the  mighty  and  the  free, 
Whose  steps  on  earth  no  more  shall  be, 
Though  their  bright  course  hath  left  a 

trace 

Nor  years  nor  sorrows  can  efface. 
Why  changes  now  the  patriot's  mien, 
Ere  while  so  loftily  serene  ? 
Thus  can  approaching  death  control 
The  might  of  that  commanding  soul  ? 
No  ! — Heard  he  not  that  thrilling  cry 
Which  told  of  bitterest  agony  ? 
He  heard  it,  and  at  once,  subdued, 
Hath  sunk  the  hero's  fortitude. 
He  heard  it,  and  his  heart  too  well 
Whence  rose  that  voice  of  woe  car. 

tell; 

And  'midst  the  gazing  throngs  around 
One  well-known  form  his  glance  hath 

found — 

One  fondly  loving  and  beloved, 
In  grief,  in  peril,  faithful  proved. 
Yes,  in  the  wildness  of  despair, 
She,  his  devoted  bride,  is  there. 
Vale,  breathless,  through  the  crowd  she 

flies, 

The  light  of  frenzy  in  her  eyes: 
But  ere  her  arms  can  clasp  the  form, 
Which  life  ere  long  must  cease  to  warm, 
Ere  on  his  agonizing  breast 
Her  heart  can  heave,  her  head  can  rest, 
Checked    in    her    course    by  ruthless 

hands, 

Mute,  motionless,  at  once  she  stands  ; 
With    blofldless    cheek    and    vacant 

glance, 

Frozen  and  fixed  in  horror's  trance  ; 
Spell-bound,  as  every  sense  were  fled, 
And  thought  o'erwhelmed,  and  feeling 

dead. 

And  the  light  waving  of  her  hair, 
And  veil,  far  floating  on  the  air, 
Alone,  in  that  dread  moment,  show 
She  is  no  sculptured  form  of  woe. 

The  scene  of  grief  and  death  is  o'er, 
The  patriot's  heart  shall  throb  no  more : 
Uut  hers — so  vainly  formed  to  prove 
The  pure  devotcdness  of  love, 


And  draw  from  fond  affection's  eve 
All  thought  sublime,  all  feeling  high  ; 
When  consciousness  again  shall  wak^ 
Hath  now  no  refuge — but  to  break. 
The  spirit  long  inured  to  pain 
May  smile  at  fate  in  calm  disdain  ; 
Survive  its  darkest  hour  and  rise 
In  more  majestic  energies. 
But  in  the  glow  of  vernal  pride, 
If  each  warm  hope  at  once  hath  died, 
Then  sinks  the  mind,  a  blighted  flower 
Dead  to  the  sunbeam  and  the  shower . 
A  broken  gem,  whose  inborn  light 
Is  scattered — ne'er  to  reunite. 


PART  II. 

Hast  thou  a  scene  that  is  not  spread 
With  records  of  thy  hlory  fled  ? 
A  monument  that  doth  not  tell 
The  tale  of  liberty's  farewell  ? 
Italia !  thou  art  but  a  grave 
Where  flowers  luxuriate  o'er  the  brave, 
And  nature  gives  her  treasures  birth 
O'er  all  that  hath  been  great  on  earth 
Yet  smile  thy  heavens  as  once   they 

smiled, 
When    thou  wert    freedom's  favored 

child  : 

Though  fane  and  tomb  alike  are  low. 
Time  hath  not  dimmed  thy  sunbeam's 

glow ; 

And,  robed  in  that  exulting  ray, 
Thou  seem'st  to  triumph  o'er  decay. 
Oh,  yet,  though  by  thy  sorrows  bent, 
In  nature's  pomp  magnificent; 
What  marvel  if,  when  all  was  lost, 
Still  on  thy  bright,  enchanted  coast, 
Though  many  an  omen  warned  him 

thence, 

Lingered  the  lord  of  eloquence  ? 
Still  gazing  on  the  lovely  sky, 
Whose  radiance    wooed  him — but   to 

die  : 

Like  him,  who  would  not  linger  there, 
Where  heaven,  earth    ocean,  all   are 

fair? 
Who  'midst  thy  glowing  scenes  could 

dwell, 
Nor  bid  awhile  his  griefs  farewell  ? 


THE  WIDOW  OF  CRESCENTIUS. 


101 


Hath  not  thy  pure  and  genial  air 
j"..i,m  for  all  sadness  but  despair? 
No  !  there  are  pangs,  whose  deep-worn 

trace 

Not  all  thy  magic  can  efface  ! 
Hearts  by  unkindness  wrung  may  learn 
The  world  and  all  its  gifts  to  spurn  ; 
Time  may  steal  on  with  silent  tread, 
And  dry  the  tear  that  mourns  the  dead, 
May  change  fond  love,  subdue  regret, 
And  teach  e'en  vengeance  to  forget: 
But  thou,  Remorse  !  there  is  no  charm, 
Thy  sting,  avenger,  to  disarm ! 
Vain  are  bright  suns  and  laughing  skies 
To  soothe  thy  victim's  agonies ; 
The   heart    once    made    thy    burning 

throne, 
Still,  while  it  beats,  is  thine  alone. 

In  vain  for  Otho's  joyless  eye 
Smile  the  fair  scenes  of  Italy, 
As  through  her  landscapes'  rich  array 
The  imperial  pilgrim  bends  his  way. 
Thy  form,  Crescentius,  on  his  sight 
Rises  when  nature  laughs  in  light, 
Glides  round  him  at  the  midnight  hour, 
Is  present  in  his  festal  bower, 
With  awful  voice  and  frowning  mien, 
By  all  but  him  unheard,  unseen. 
Ch  !  thus  to  shadows  of  the  grave 
Be  every  tyrant  still  a  slave  ! 

Where    through    Gargano's    woody 

dells, 

O'er  bending  oaks  the  north  wind  swells, 
A  sainted  hermit's  lowly  tomb 
Is  bosomed  in  umbrageous  gloom. 
In  shades  that  saw  him  live  and  die 
Beneath  their  waving  canopy. 
'  1'vvas  his,  as  legends  tell,  to  share 
The  converse  of  immortals  there  ; 
Around  that  dweller  of  the  wild 
There    "  bright      appearances  "    have 

smiled, 

And  angel  wings,  at  eve,  have  been 
Gleaming  the  shadowy  boughs  between. 
And  oft  from  that  secluded  bower 
Hath    breathed,  at    midnight's   calmer 

hour, 

A  swell  of  viewless  harps,  a  sound 
Of  warbled  anthems  pealing  round. 


Oh,  none  but  voices  of  the  sky 
Might  wake  that  thrilling  harmony, 
Whose  tones,  whose  very  echoes  made 
An  Eden  of  the  lonely  shade  ! 
Years  have  gone  by ;  the  hermit  sleeps 
Amidst  Gargano's  woods  and  steeps  ; 
Ivy  and  flowers  have  half  o'ergrosvn, 
And  veiled  his  low  sepulchral  stone  : 
Yet  still  the  spot  is  holy,  still 
Celestial  footsteps  haunt  the  hill ; 
And  oft  the  awe-struck  mountaineer 
Aerial  vesper-hymns  may  hear 
Around  those  forest  precincts  float, 
Soft,  solemn,  clear,  but  still  remote. 
Oft  will  Affliction  breathe  her  plaint 
To  that  rude  shrine's  departed  saint, 
And  deem  that  spirits  of  the  blest 
There  shed  sweet  influence   o'er    het 
breast. 

And  thither  Otho  now  repairs, 
To  soothe   hi;    soul   with   vows    and 

prayers  ; 

And  if  for  him,  on  holy  ground, 
The  lost  one,  Peace,  may  yet  be  found, 
'Midst  rocks  and  forests  by  the  bed, 
Where,  calmly  sleep  the  sainted  dead, 
She  dwells,  remote  from  heedless  eye, 
With  Nature's  lonely  majesty. 

Vain,  vain  the  search — his  troubled 

breast 

N9r  vow  nor  penance  lulls  to  rest ; 
The  weary  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 
The  hopes  that  cheered  it  are  no  moro 
Then  sinks  his  soul,  and  day  by  day 
Youth's  buoyant  energies  decay. 
The  light  of  health  his  eye  hath  flown, 
The  glow  that  tinged  his  cheek  is  gone 
Joyless  as  one  on  whom  is  laid 
Some  baleful  spell  that  bids  him  fade, 
'  Extending  its  mysterious  power 
O'er  every  scene,  o'er  every  hour . 
E'en  thus  he  withers  ;  and  to  him 
Italia's  brilliant  skies  are  dim. 
He  withers — in  that  glorious  clime 
Where  Nature  laughs  in  scorn  of  Time; 
And  suns,  that  shed  on  all  below 
Their  full  and  vivifying  glow, 
From  him  alone  their  power  withhold, 
And  leave  his  heart  in  darkness  cold. 


TO2 


THE  WIDOW  OF  CRESCENTIUS. 


Earth  blooms   around  him,  heaven  is 

fair, 
He  only  seems  to  perish  there. 

Yet,  sometimes  will  a  transient  smile 
Play  o'er  his  faded  cheek  awhile, 
When  breathes  his  minstrel  boy  a  strain 
Of  power  to  lull  all  earthly  pain  ; 
So  wildly  sweet,  its  notes  might  seem 
The  ethereal  music  of  a  dream, 
A  spirit's  voice  from  worlds  unknown, 
Deep  thrilling  power  in  every  tone  ! 
Sweet  is  that  lay,  and  yet  its  flow 
Hath  language  only  given  to  woe ; 
And  if  at  times  its  wakening  swell 
Some  tale  of  glory  seems  to  tell, 
Soon  the  proud  notes  of  triumph  die, 
Lost  in  a  dirge's  harmony. 
Oh  I    many  a    pang    the    heart   hath 

proved, 

Hath  deeply  suffered,  fondly  loved, 
Ere  the  sad  strain   could  catch  from 

thence 

Such  deep  impassioned  eloquence  ! — 
Yes  !  gaze  on  him,  that  minstrel  boy — 
He  is  no  child  of  hope  and  joy  ! 
Though  few  his  years,  yet  have  they 

been 

Such  as  leave  traces  on  the  mien, 
And  o'er  the  roses  of  our  prime 
Breathe  other  blights   than  those   of 

time. 

Yet  seems  his  spirit  wild  and  proud, 
By  grief  unsoftened  and  unbowed. 
Oh  !  there  are  sorrows  which  impart 
A  sternness  foreign  to  the  heart, 
And,    rushing    with    an    earthquake's 

power 

That  makes  a  desert  in  an  hour, 
Rouse  the  dread  passions  in  their  course 
As  tempests  wake  the  billows'  force  ! — 
'Tis  sad,  on  youthful  Guide's  face, 
The  stamp  of  woes  like  these  to  trace. 
Oh  !  where  can  ruins  awe  mankind, 
Dark  as  the  ruins  of  the  mind  ? 

His  mien  is  lofty,  but  his  gaze 
Too  well  a  wandering  soul  betrays; 
His  full  dark  eye  at  times  is  bright 
With  strange  and  momentary  light, 
Whose  quick  uncertain  flashes  throw 
O'er  his  pale  cheek  a  hectic  glow : 


And  oft  his  features  and  his  air 
A  shade  of  troubled  mystery  wc.i: , 
A  glance  of  hurried  wildness,  fraught 
With  some  unfathomable  thought. 
Whate'er    that    thought,    still    unex. 

pressed, 

Dwells  that  sad  secret  in  his  breast ; 
The  pride  his  haughty  brow  reveals, 
All  other  passions  well  conceals — 
He   breathes  each  wounded  feeling's 

tone 

In  music's  eloquence  alone ; 
His  soul's  deep  voice  is  only  poured 
Through   his  full    song   and   swelling 

chord. 

He  seeks  no  friend,  but  shuns  the  train 
Of  courtiers  with  a  proud  disdain; 
And,  save  when  Otho  bids  his  lay 
Its  half  unearthly  power  essay 
In  hall  or  bower  the  heart  to  thrill, 
His  haunts  are  wild  and  lonely  still. 
Far  distant  from  the  heedless  throng, 
He  roves  old  Tiber's  banks  along, 
Where  Empire's  desolate  remains 
Lie  scattered  o'er  the  si'.nt  plains; 
Or,  lingering  'midst  each  ruined  shrine 
That  strews  the  desert  Palatine, 
With  mournful  yet  commanding  mien, 
Like  the  sad  genius  of  the  scene, 
Entranced  in  awful  thought  appears 
To  commune  with  departed  years. 
Or  at  the  dead  of  night,  when  Rome 
Seems  of  heroic  shades  the  home  ; 
When  Tiber's  murmuring  voice  recalls 
The  mighty  to  their  ancient  halls  ; 
When  hushed  is  every  meaner  sound, 
And  the  deep  moonlight-calm  around 
Leaves  to  the  solemn  scene  alone 
The  majesty  of  ages  flown, — 
A  pilgrim  to  each  hero's  tomb 
He  wanders  through  the  sacred  gloom, 
And,  'midst  those  dwellings  of  decay. 
At  times  will  breathe  so  sad  a  lay, 
So  wild  a  grandeur  in  each  tone, 
'Tis  like  a  dirge  for  empires  gone 

Awake  thy  pealing  harp  again, 
But  breathe  a  more  exulting  strain, 
Young  Guido !  for  awhile  forgot 
Be  the  dark  secrets  of  thy  lot, 
And  rouse  the  inspiring  soul  of  song 
To  speed  the  banquet's  hour  along! 


THE  I'/ WOW  OF  CRESCENTIUS. 


103 


The  feast  is  spread,  the  music's  call 
Is  echoing  through  the  royal  hall, 
And  banners  wave  and  trophies  shine 
O'er  stately  guests  in  glittering  line  ; 
And  Otfio  seeks  awhile  to  chase 
The  thoughts  he  never  can  erase, 
And   bid   the   voice,  whose   murmurs 

deep 

Rise  like  a  spirit  on  his  sleep — 
The  still  small  voice  of  conscience — die, 
Lost  in  the  din  of  revelry. 
On  his  pale  brow  dejection  lowers, 
But  that  shall  yield  to  festal  hours  : 
A  gloom  is  in  his  faded  eye, 
But  that  from  music's  power  shall  fly : 
His  wasted  cheek  is  wan  with  care, 
But  mirth  shall  spread  fresh  crimson 

there. 

Wake,  Guido!  wake  thy  numbers  high, 
Strike  the  bold  chord  exultingly  ! 
And  pour  upon  the  enraptured  ear 
Such  strains  as  warriors  love  to  hear  ! 
Let  the  rich  mantling  goblet  flow, 
And  banish  all  resembling  woe  ; 
And,  if  a  thought  intrude,  of  power 
To  mar  the  bright  convivial  hour, 
Still  must  its  influence  lurk  unseen, 
And  cloud  the  heart — but  not  the  mien ! 

Away,  vain  dream  ! — on  Otho'sbrow, 

Still  darker  lower  the  shadows  now; 

Changed  are  his  features,  now  o'er- 
spread 

With  the  cold  paleness  of  the  dead  ; 

Now  crimsoned  with  a  hectic  dye, 

The  burning  flush  of  agony  ! 

His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  breast 

Heaves  with  convulsive  pangs  op- 
pressed ; 

Now  his  dim  eye  seems  fixed  and 
glazed, 

And  now  to  heaven  in  anguish  raised; 

And  as,  with  unavailing  aid, 

Around  him  throng  his  guests  dismayed, 

He  sinks — while  scarce  his  struggling 
breath 

Hath  power  to  falter — "This  is  death !" 

Then  rushed  that  haughty  child  of 

song, 

Dark  Guido,  through  the  awe-struck 
throng  : 


Filled  with  a  strange  delirious  light, 
His  kindling  ey>  shone  wildly  bright; 
And  on  the  sufferer's  mien  awhile 
Gazing  with  stern  vindictive  smile, 
A  feverish  glow  of  triumph  dyed 
His   burning    cheek,   while     thus    he 

cried  : —  [brow 

"  Yes !  these  are  death-pangs — on  thy 
Is  set  the  seal  of  vengeance  now  ! 
Oh!     well    was     mixed     the     deadly 

draught. 

And  long  and  deeply  hast  thou  quaffed ; 
And  bitter  as  thy  pangs  may  be, 
They  are  but  guerdons  meet  from  me  ! 
Yet,  these  are  but  a  moment's  throes, 
Howe'er  intense,  they  soon  shall  close. 
Soon    shall    thou    yield    thy    fleeting 

breath — 

My  life  hath  been  a  lingering  death  ; 
Since  one  dark  hour  of  woe  and  crime, 
A  blood-spot  on  the  page  of  time  ' 

"  Deemest  thou  my  mind  of  reason 

void  ? 

It  is  not  frenzied, — but  destroyed  ! 
Ay!  view  the  wreck  with  shuddering 

thought, — 

That  work  of  ruin  thou  hast  wrought! 
The  secret  of  thy  doom  to  tell, 
My  name  alone  suffices  well ! 
Stephania  ! — once  a  hero's  bride! 
Otho  !  thou  knowest  the  rest — he  ilicJ. 
Yes  !  trusting  to  a  monarch's  word, 
The  Roman  fell,  untried,  unheard ! 
And   thou,   whose   every   pledge    was 

vain, 
How  couldst  thou  trust  in  aught  i.gain ! 

"  He  died,  and  I  was  changed — my 

soul, 

A  lonely  wanderer,  spurned  control. 
From  peace,  and  light,  and  glory  hurled, 
The  outcast  of  a  purer  world, 
I  saw  each  brighter  hope  o'erthrown, 
And  lived  for  one  dread  task  alone. 
The  task  is  closed,  fulfilled  the  vow — 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  thee  now. 
Betrayer!  In  thy  turn  betrayed, 
The  debt  of  blood  shrill  soon  be  paid  I 
Thine   hour  is   come — the    time   hath 
been  [scene ; 

My   heart   had   shrunk   from    such    3 


104     THE  LAS7  BANQUET  OF  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA 


That  feeling  long  is  past — my  fate 
Hath  made  me  stern  as  desolate. 

"Ye  that  around    me    shuddering 

stand, 

Ye  chiefs  and  princes  of  the  land ! 
Mourn  ye  a  guilty  monarch's  doom  ? 
Ye  wept  not  o'er  the  patriot's  tomb  1 
He  sleeps  unhonored — yet  be  mine 
To  share  his  low,  neglected  shrine. 
His  soul  with  freedom  finds  a  home, 
His  grave  is  that  of  glory — Rome  ! 
Are  not  the  great  of  old  with  her, 
That  city  of  the  sepulchre  ? 
Lead  me  to  death  !  and  let  me  share 
The  slumbers  of  the  mighty  there !  " 

The  day  departs — that  fearful  day 
Fades  in  calm  loveliness  away : 
From    purple    heavens    its    lingering 

beam 

Seems  melting  into  Tiber's  stream, 
And  softly  tints  each  Roman  hill 


With  glowing  light,  as  clear  and  still 
As  if,  unstained  by  crime  or  woe, 
Its  hours  had  passed  in  silent  flow. 
The  day  sets  calmly — it  hath  been 
Marked  with  a  strange  and  awful  scene 
One  guilty  bosom  throbs  no  more, 
And  Otho's  pangs  and  life  are  o'er. 
And  thou,  ere  yet  another  sun 
His  burning  race  hath  brightly  run, 
Released  from  anguish  by  thy  foes, 
Daughter  of  Rome  !    shalt  find  repose. 
Yes,  on  thy  country's  lovely  sky 
Fix  yet  once  more  thy  parting  eye  ! 
A  few  short  hours — and  all  shall  be 
The  silent  and  the  past  for  thee. 
Oh  !  thus  with  tempests  of  a  day 
We  struggle,  and  we  pass  away, 
Like  the  wild  billows  as  they  sweep, 
Leaving  no  vestige  on  the  deep  ! 
And  o'er  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed 
The  sons  of  future  days  shall  tread, 
The  pangs,  the  conflicts,  of  thy  lot 
By  them  unknown,  by  thee  forgot. 


THE  LAST  BANQUET  OF  ANTONY  AND 
CLEOPATRA. 

["  Antony,  concluding  that  he  could  not  die  more  honorably  than  in  battle,  determined  to  attack 
Cassar  at  the  same  time  both  by  sea  and  land.  The  night  preceding  the  execution  of  this  de- 
sign, he  ordered  his  servants  at  supper  to  render  him  their  best  services  that  evening,  and  fill 
the  wine  round  plentifully,  for  the  day  following  they  might  belong  to  another  master,  whilst 
he  lay  extended  on  the  ground,  no  longer  of  consequence  either  to  them  or  to  himself.  His 
friends  were  affected,  and  wept  to  hear  him  talk  thus  ;  which  when  he  perceived,  he  encouraged 
them  by  assurances  that  his  expectations  of  a  glorious  victorv  were  at  least  equal  to  those  of  an 
honorable  death.  At  the  dead  of  night,  when  universal  sife  ice  reigned  through  the  city — a 
silence  that  was  deepened  by  the  awful  thought  of  the  ensuing  day— on  a  sudden  was  heard  the 
sound  of  musical  instruments,  and  a  noise  which  resembled  the  exclamations  of  Bacchanals. 
This  tumultuous  procession  seemed  to  pass  through  the  whole  city,  and  to  go  out  at  the  gate 
which  led  to  the  enemy's  camp.  Those  who  reflected  on  this  prodigy  concluded  that  Bacchus, 
the  god  whom  Antony  affected  to  imitate,  had  then  forsaken  him.1'— LANGHORNE'S  Plutarch.} 

THY  foes  had  girt  thee  with  their  dead  array, 

O  stately  Alexandria  ! — yet  the  sound 
Of  mirth  and  music,  at  the  close  of  day, 

Swelled  from  thy  splendid  fabrics,  far  around 
O'er  camp  and  wave.     Within  the  royal  hall, 

In  gay  magnificence  the  feast  was  spread  ; 
And,  brightly  streaming  from  the  pictured  wall, 

A  thousand  lamps  their  trembling  lustre  shed 


TFE  LAST  BANQUET  OF  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA.     IOJ 

O'er  many  a  column,  rich  with  precious  dyes, 

That  tinge  the  marble's  vein,  'neath  Afric's  burning  skies. 

And  soft  and  clear  that  wavering  radiance  played 

O'er  sculptured  forms,  that  round  the  pillared  scene 
Calm  and  majestic  rose,  by  art  arrayed 

In  goldlike  beauty,  awfully  serene. 
Oh !  how  unlike  the  troubled  guests  reclined 

Round  that  luxurious  board  ! — in  every  face 
Some  shadow  from  the  tempest  of  the  mind 

Rising  by  fits,  the  searching  eye  might  trace, 
Though  vainly  masked  in  smiles  which  are  not  mirth, 
But  the  proud  spirit's  veil  thrown  o'er  the  woes  of  earth. 

Their  brows  are  bound  with  wreathes,  whose  transient  bloom 

May  still  survive  the  wearers — and  the  rose 
Perchance  may  scarce  be  withered  when  the  tomb 

Receives  the  mighty  to  its  dark  repose  ! 
The  day  must  dawn  on  battle,  and  may  set 

In  death — but  fill  the  mantling  wine-cup  high  I 
Despair  is  fearless,  and  the  Fates  e'en  yet 

Lend  her  one  hour  for  parting  revelry. 
They  who  the  empire  of  the  world  possessed, 
Would  taste  its  joys  again,  ere  all  exchanged  for  rest 

Its  joys !  oh,  mark  yon  proud  triumvir's  mien, 

And  read  their  annals  on  that  brow  of  care  ; 
*Midst  pleasure's  lotus-bowers  his  steps  have  been ; 

Earth's  brightest  pathway  led  him  to  despair. 
Trust  not  the  glance  that  fain  would  yet  inspire 

The  buoyant  energies  of  days  gone  by ; 
There  is  delusion  in  its  meteor-fire, 

And  all  within  is  shame,  is  agony ! 
Away  !  the  tear  in  bitterness  may  flow, 
But  there  are  smiles  which  bear  a  stamp  of  deeper  woe. 

Thy  cheek  is  sunk,  and  faded  as  thy  fame, 

O  lost,  devoted  Roman !  yet  thy  brow 
To  that  ascendant  and  undying  name, 

Pleads  with  stern  loftiness  that  right  e'en  now. 
Thy  glory  is  departed,  but  hath  left 

A  lingering  light  around  thee — in  decay 
Not  less  than  kingly,  though  of  all  bereft, 

Thou  seem'st  as  empire  had  not  passed  away 
Supreme  in  ruin  !  teaching  hearts  elate, 
A  deep,  prophetic  dread  of  still  mysterious  fate ! 

But  thou,  enchantress-queen  !  whose  love  hath  made 

His  desolation — thou  art  by  his  side, 
In  all  thy  sovereignty  of  charms  arrayed, 

To  meet  the  storm  with  still  unconquered  pride. 


106     THE  LAST  BANQUET  OF  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPA  TRA. 

Imperial  being  !  e'en  though  many  a  stain 

Of  error  be  upon  thee,  there  is  power 
In  thy  commanding  nature,  which  shall  reign 

O'er  the  stern  genius  of  misfortune's  hour ; 
And  the  dark  beauty  of  thy  troubled  eye 
E'en  now  is  all  illumed  with  wild  sublimity. 

Thine  aspect,  all  impassioned,  wears  a  light 

Inspiring  and  inspired — thy  cheek  a  dye, 
Which  rises  not  from  joy,  but  yet  is  bright 

With  the  deep  glow  of  feve-ish  energy. 
Proud  siren  of  the  Nile  !  thy  glance  is  fraught 

With  an  immortal  fire — in  every  beam 
It  darts,  there  kindles  some  heroic  thought, 

But  wild  and  awful  as  a  sibyl's  dream ; 
For  thou  with  death  hast  communed,  to  attain 
Dread  knowledge  of  the  pangs  that  ransom  from  the  chaia. 

And  the  stern  courage  by  such  musings  lent, 

Daughter  of  Afric  !  o'er  thy  beauty  throws 
The  grandeur  of  a  regal  spirit,  blent 

With  all  the  majesty  of  mighty  woes  ; 
While  he,  so  fondly,  fatally  adored, 

Thy  fallen  Roman,  gazes  on  thee  yet, 
Till  scarce  the  soul,  that  once  exulting  soared, 

Can  deem  the  day-star  of  its  glory  set ; 
Scarce  his  charmed  heart  believes  that  power  can  be 
In  sovereign  fate,  o'er  him  thus  fondly  loved  by  thee. 

But  there  is  sadness  in  the  eyes  around, 

Which  marked  that  ruined  leader,  and  survey 
His  changeful  mien,  whence  oft  the  gloom  profound 

Strange  triumph  chases  haughtily  away. 
"  Fill  the  bright  goblet,  warrior  guests  !  "  he  cries ; 

"Quaff,  ere  we  part,  the  generous  nectar  deep  I 
Ere  sunset  gild  once  more  the  western  skies, 

Your  chief  in  cold  forgetfulness  may  sleep, 
While  sounds  of  revel  float  o'er  shore  and  sea, 
And  the  red  bowl  again  is  crowned — but  not  for  me. 

"  Yet  weep  not  thus — the  struggle  is  not  o'er 

O  victors  of  Philippi !  many  a  field 
Hath  yielded  palms  to  us  : — one  effort  more 

By  one  stern  conflict  must  our  doom  be  sealed  I 
Forget  not,  Romans  !  o'er  a  subject  world 

How  royally  your  eagle's  wing  hath  spread, 
Though,  from  his  eyrie  of  dominion  hurled, 

Now  bursts  the  tempest  on  his  crested  head  I 
Yet  sovereign  still,  if  banished  from  the  sky, 
The  sun's  indignant  bird,  he  must  not  droop — but  die." 


ALAR  1C  IN  ITALY.  I°7 

The  feast  is  o'er.     'Tis  night,  the  dead  of  night — 

Unbroken  stillness  broods  o'er  earth  and  deep  ; 
From  Egypt's  heaven  of  soft  and  starry  light 

The  moon  looks  cloudless  o'er  a  world  of  sleep. 
For  those  who  wait  the  morn's  awakening  beams, 

The  battle  signal  to  decide  their  doom, 
Have  sunk  to  feverish  rest  and  troubled  dreams — 

Rest  that  shall  soon  be  calmer  in  the  tomb, 
Dreams,  dark  and  ominous,  but  there  to  cease, 
When  sleep  the  lords  of  war  in  solitude  and  peace. 

Wake,  slumberers,  wake  !     Hark  !  heard  ye  not  a  sound 

Of  gathering  tumult  ? — Near  and  nearer  still 
Its  murmur  swells.     Above,  below,  around, 

Bursts  a  strange  chorus  forth,  confused  and  shrill. 
Wake,  Alexandria  !  through  thy  streets  the  tread 

Of  steps  unseen  is  hurrying,  and  the  note 
Of  pipe  and  lyre  and  trumpet,  wild  and  dread, 

Is  heard  upon  the  midnight  air  to  float ; 
And  voices,  clamorous  as  in  frenzied  mirth, 
Mingled  their  thousand  tones,  which  are  not  of  the  earth. 

These  are  no  mortal  sounds — their  thrilling  strain 

Hath  more  mysterious  power,  and  birth  more  high; 
And  the  deep  horror  chilling  every  vein 

Owns  them  of  stern,  terrific  augury. 
Beings  of  worlds  unknown !  ye  pass  away, 

O  ye  invisible  and  awful  throng  ! 
Your  echoing  footsteps  and  resounding  lay 

To  Caesar's  camp  exulting  move  along. 
Thy  gods  forsake  thee,  Antony  !  the  sky 
By  that  dread  sign  reveals  thy  doom — "  Despair  and  die  ! ' 


ALARIC    IN    ITALY. 

After  describing  the  conquest  of  Greece  and  Italy  by  the  German  and  Scythian  hcrdes  united 
under  the  command  of  Alaric,  the  historian  of  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire 
thus  proceeds:—"  Whether  fame,  or  conquest,  or  riches  were  the  object  of  Alaric,  he  pursued 
that  object  with  an  indefatigable  ardor  which  could  neither  be  quelled  by  adversity  nor  satiated 
by  success.  No  sooner  had  he  reached  the  extreme  land  of  Italy,  than  he  was  attracted  by  the 
neighboring  prospect  of  a  fair  and  peaceful  island.  Yet  even  the  possession  of  Sicily  he  con- 
sidered only  as  an  intermediate  step  to  the  important  expedition  which  he  already  meditateri 
against  the  continent  of  Africa.  The  straits  of  Rhegium  and  Messina  are  twelve  miles  in 
length,  and  in  the  narrowest  passage,  about  one  mile  and  a  half  broad  ;  and  the  fabulous 
monsters  '  '.he  deep,  the  rocks  of  Scylla  and  the  whirlpool  of  Charybdis,  could  terrify  none 
but  the  ;  iojt  timid  and  unskilful  mariners:  yet,  as  soon  as  the  first  division  of  the  Goths  had 
embarked,  a  sudden  tempest  arose,  which  sunk  or  scattered  many  of  the  transports.  Their 
courage  was  daunted  by  the  terrors  of  a  new  element  ;  and  the  whole  design  was  defeated  by 
the  premature  death  of  Alaric,  which  fixed,  after  a  short  illness,  the  fatil  term  of  his  coir 


to8 


ALARIC-fN  ITAL  Y. 


quests.  The  ferocious  character  of  the  barbarians  was  displayed  in  the  funeral  of  a  hero, 
whose  valor  and  fortune  they  celebrated  with  mournful  applause.  By  the  labor  of  a  captive 
multitude,  they  forcibly  diverted  the  course  of  the  Eiusentinus,  a  small  river  that  washes  the 
walls  of  Consentia.  The  royal  sepulchre,  adorned  with  the  splendid  spoils  and  trophies  of 
Rome,  was  constructed  in  the  vacant  bed  ;  the  waters  were  then  restored  to  their  natural 
channel,  and  the  secret  spot  where  the  remains  of  Alaric  had  been  deposited  was  forever  con- 
cealed by  the  inhuman  massacre  of  the  prisoners  who  had  been  employed  to  execute  the 
work." — See  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  vol.  v.  p.  329.] 


HEARD  ye  the  Gothic  trumpet's  blast  ? 
The  march  of  hosts  as  Alaric  passed  ? 
His  steps  have  tracked  that  glorious 

clime, 

The  birth-place  of  heroic  time  ; 
But  he,  in  northern  deserts  bred, 
Spared  not  the  living  for  the  dead, 
Nor  heard  the  voice,  whose  pleading 

cries 

From  temple  and  from  tomb  arise. 
He  passed — the  light  of  burning  fanes 
Hath    been    his    torch    o'er    Grecian 

plains; 

And  woke  they  not,  the  brave,  the  free, 
To  guard  their  own  Thermopylae  ? 
And  left  they  not  their  silent  dwelling, 
When  Scythia's  note  of  war  was  swell- 
ing ? 
No!  where  the  bold  Three  Hundred 

slept, 

Sad  freedom  battled  not — but  wept ! 
For  nerveless  then  the  Spartan's  hand, 
And   Thebes   could   rouse    no  Sacred 

Band; 

Nor  one  high  soul  from  slumber  broke, 
When  Athens  owned  the  Northern 

yoke. 

But  was  there  none  for  thee  to  dare 
The  conflict,  scorning  to  despair  ? 
O  city  of  the  seven  proud  hills ! 
Whose  name  e'en  yet  the  spirit  thrills, 
As  doth  a  clarion's  battle-call — 
Didst  thou  too,  ancient  empress,  fall  ? 
Did  no  Camillus  from  the  chain 
Ransom  thy  Capitol  again  ? 
Oh  !  who  shall  tell  the  days  to  be, 
No  patriot  rose  to  bleed  for  thee  ? 

Heard    ye    the     Gothic     trumpet's 

blast  ? 

The  march  of  hosts,  as  Alaric  passed  ? 
That  fearful  sound,  at  midnight  deep, 
Burst  on  the  eternal  city's  sleep  : 


How  woke  the  mighty  ?     She,   whose 

will 

Sc  long  had  bid  the  world  be  still, 
Her  sword  a  sceptre,  and  her  eye 
The  ascendant  star  of  destiny  ! 
She  woke — to  view  the  dread  array 
Of  Scythians  rushing  to  their  prey, 
To  hear  her  streets  resound  the  cries 
Poured  from  a  thousand  agonies ! 
While  the  strange  light  of  flames,  thai 

gave 

A  ruddy  glow  to  Tiber's  wave, 
Bursting  in  that  terrific  hour 
From    fane    and    palace,   dome    and 

tower, 

Revealed  the  throngs,  for  aid  divine 
Clinging  to  many  a  worshipped  shrine  : 
Fierce  fitful  radiance  wildly  shed 
O'er  spear  and  sword,  with  carnage  red, 
Shone  o'er  the  suppliant  and  the  flying, 
And  kindled  pyres  for  Romans  dying. 

Weep,  Italy  !  alas,  that  e'er 
Should  tears  alone  thy  wrongs  declare ! 
The  time  hath  been  when  thy  distress 
Had  roused  up  empires  for  redress  ! 
Now,  her  long  race  of  glory  run, 
Without  a  combat  Rome  is  won, 
And  from  her  plundered  temples  forth 
Rush  the  fierce  children  of  the  north, 
To  share  beneath  more  genial  skies 
Each  joy  their  own  rude  clime  denies. 

Ye  who  on  bright  Campania's  shore 
Bade  your  fair  villas  rise  of  yore, 
With  all  their  graceful  colonnades, 
And  crystal  baths,  and  myrtle  shades, 
Along  the  blue  Hesperian  deep, 
Whose  glassy  waves  in  sunshine  sleep  ; 
Beneath  your  olive  and  your  vine 
Far  other  inmates  now  recline, 
And  the  tall  plane,  whose  roots  ye  fad 
With  rich  libations  duly  sked, 


ALARIC  IN  ITALY. 


109 


O'er    guests,    unlike     your    vanished 

friends, 

Its  bowery  canopy  extends.  [ing, 

For  them  the  southern  heaven  is  glow- 
The  bright  Falernian  nectar  flowing  ; 
For  them  the  marble  halls  unfold 
Where  nobler  beings  dwelt  of  old 
Whose  children  for  barbarian  lords 
Touch   the    sweet    lyre's    resounding 

chords, 

Or  wreaths  of  Paestan  roses  twine, 
To  crown  the  sons  of  Elbe  and  Rhine. 
Yet,  though  luxurious  they  repose 
Beneath  Corinthian  porticoes, 
While  round  them  into  being  start 
The  marvels  of  triumphant  art ; 
Oh  :    not  for  them  hath  genius  given 
To  Parian  stone  the  fire  of  heaven, 
Enshrining  in  the  forms  he  wrought 
A  bright  eternity  of  thought. 
In  vain  the  natives  of  the  skies 
In  breathing  marble  round  them  rise, 
And  sculptured    nymphs   of  fount   or 

glade 

People  the  dark-green  laurel  shade; 
Cold  are  the  conqueror's  heart  and  eye 
To  visions  of  divinity  ; 
And  rude  his  hand  which  dares  deface 
The  models  of  immortal  grace. 

Arouse  ye  from  your  soft  delights  ! 
Chieftains  !  the  war-note's  call  invites ; 
And  other  lands  must  yet  be  won, 
And  other  deeds  of  havoc  done. 
Warriors  !  your  flowery  bondage  break, 
Sons  of  the  stormy  north,  awake  ! 
The    barks   arc    launching    from    the 

steep, 

Soon  shall  the  Isle  of  Ceres  weep, 
And  Afric's  burning  winds  afar 
Waft  the  shrill  sounds  of  Alaric's  war. 
Where  shall  his  race  of  victory  close  ? 
When  shall  the  ravaged  earth  repose  ? 
But  hark  !  what  wildly  mingling  cries 
From  Scythia's  camp  tumultuous  rise  ? 
Why   swells   dread  Alaric's   name  on 

air  ? 

A  sterner  conqueror  hath  been  there  ! 
A  conqueror — yet  his  paths  are  peace, 
He  comes  to  bring  the  world's  release  ; 
He  of  the  sword  that  knows  no  sheath, 
The  avenger,  the  deliverer— Death  ! 


Is  then  that  daring  spirit  fled  ? 
Doth  Alaric  slumber  with  the  dead? 
Tamed   are    the   warrior's   pride    and 

strength, 

And  he  and  earth  are  calm  at  length. 
The  land  'where  heaven  unclouded 

shines, 
Where   sleep    the    sunbeams    on    th« 

vines ; 

The  land  by  conquest  made  his  own, 
Can  yield  him  now — a  grave  alone. 
But  his — her  lord  from  Alp  to  sea — 
No  common  sepulchre  shall  be  ! 
Oh  !  make  his  tomb  where  mortal  eye 
Its  buried  wealth  may  ne'er  descry  ! 
Where  mortal  foot  may  never  tread 
Above  a  victor-monarch's  bed. 
Let  not  his  royal  dust  be  hid 
Neath  star-aspiring  pyramid ; 
Nor  bid  the  gathered  mound  arise, 
To  bear  his  memory  to  the  skies. 
Years  roll  away — oblivion  claims 
Her  triumph  o'er  heroic  names  ; 
And  hands  profane  disturb  the  clay 
That  once  was  fired  with  glory's  ray; 
And  Avarice,  from  their  secret  gloom, 
Drags  e'en  the  treasures  of  the  tomb. 
But  thou,  O  leader  of  the  free ! 
That  general  doom  awaits  not  thee : 
Thou,  where  no  step  may  e'er  intrude, 
Shalt  rest  in  regal  solitude, 
Till,  bursting  on  thy  sleep  profound, 
The  Awakener's  final  trumpet  sound. 
Turn  ye  the  waters  from  their  course, 
Bid  Nature  yield  to  human  force, 
And  hollow  in  the  torrent's  bed 
A  chamber  for  the  mighty  dead 
The  work  is  done — the  captive's  hand 
Hath  well  obeyed  his  lord's  command. 
Within  that  royal  tomb  are  cast 
The  richest  trophies  of  the  past, 
The  wealth  of  many  a  stately  dome, 
The    gold    and    gems     of     plundered 

Rome  ; 

And  when  the  midnight  stars  are  beam- 
ing, 

And   ocean  waves   in    stillness  gleam- 
ing, 

Stern  in  their  grief,  his  warriors  bear 
The  Chastener  of  the  Nations  there ; 
To  rest,  at  length,  from  victory's  toil, 
Alone,  with  all  an  empire's  spoil  1 


HO  THE  WIFE  OF  ASDRUBAL. 


Then    the  freed    current's    rushing 

wave 

Rolls  o'er  the  secret  of  the  grave ; 
Then  streams  the  martyred  captives' 

blood 

I'o  crimson  that  sepulchral'flood, 
vVhose  conscious  tide  alone  shall  keep 
The  mystery  in  its  bosom  deep. 
Time  hath  passed  on  since  then — and 

swept 


From    earth   the    urns   where    heroes 

slept ; 

Temples  of  gods  and  domes  of  kings, 
Are  mouldering  with  forgotten  things  ; 
Yet  shall  not  ages  e'er  molest 
The  viewless  home  of  Alaric's  rest  : 
Still    rolls,    like    them,   the    unfailing 

river, 
The  guardian  of  his  dust  forever. 


THE  WIFE  OF  ASDRUBAL. 

["  This  governor,  who  had  braved  death  when  it  was  at  a  distance,  and  protested  that  the  sntl 
should  never  see  him  survive  Carthage — this  fierce  Asdrubal  was  so  mean-spirited  as  to  come 
alone,  and  privately  throw  himself  at  the  conqueror's  feet.  The  general,  pleased  to  see  his 
proud  rival  humbled,  granted  his  life,  and  kept  him  to  grace  his  triumph.  The  Carthaginians 
in  the  citadel  no  sooner  understood  that  their  commander  had  abandoned  the  place,  than  they 
thrrw  open  the  gates,  and  put  the  proconsul  in  possession  of  Byrsa.  The  Romans  had  now 
no  enemy  to  contend  with  but  the  nine  hundred  deserters,  who,  being  reduced  to  despair,  re- 
tired into  the  temple  of  Esculapius,  which  was  a  second  citadel  within  the  first :  there  the  pro- 
consul attacked  them  ;  and  these  unhappy  wretches,  finding  there  was  no  way  to  escape,  set 
fire  to  the  temple.  As  the  flames  spread,  they  retreated  from  one  part  to  another,  till  they 
got  to  the  roof  of  the  building;  then  Asdrubal's  wife  appeared  in  her  best  apparel,  as  if  the  day 
of  her  death  had  been  a  day  of  triumph  ;  and  after  having  uttered  the  most  bitter  imprecations 
against  her  husband,  whom  she  saw  standing  below  with  Emilianus, — '  Base  coward  !  '  said 
she,  '  the  mean  things  thou  hast  done  to  save  thy  life  shall  not  avail  thee :  thou  shah  die  this 
instant,  at  least  in  thy  two  children.'  Having  thus  spoken,  she  drew  out  a  dagger,  stabbed 
them  both,  and  while  they  were  yet  struggling  for  life,  threw  them  from  the  top  of  the  '.emple, 
and  leaped  down  after  them  into  the  flames." — Ancient  Universal  History.] 

THE  sun  sets  brightly — but  a  ruddier  glow 

O'er  Afric's  heaven  the  flames  of  Carthage  throw  ; 

Her  walls  have  sunk,  and  pyramids  of  fire 

lu  lurid  splendor  from  her  domes  aspire ; 

Swayed  by  the  wind,  they  wave — while  glares  the  sky 

As  when  the  desert's  red  simoom  is  nigh  ; 

The  sculptured  altar  and  the  pillared  hall 

Shine  out  in  dreadful  brightness  ere  they  fall ; 

Far  o'er  the  seas  the  light  of  ruin  streams, 

Rock,  wave,  and  isle  are  crimsoned  by  its  beams  ; 

While  captive  thousands,  bound  in  Roman  chains, 

Gaze  in  mute  horror  on  their  burning  fanes  ; 

And  shouts  of  triumph,  echoing  far  around, 

Svrell  from  ttie  victors'  tents  with  ivy  crowned.1 

But  mark !  from  yon  fair  temple's  loftiest  height 

What  towering  form  bursts  wildly  on  the  sight, 

All  regal  in  magnificent  attire, 

And  sternly  beauteous  in  terrific  ire  ? 

1  It  was  a  Roman  custom  to  adorn  the  tents  of  victors  with  ivy. 


THE  WIFE  OF  ASDRUBAL.  1 1 1 

She  might  be  deemed  a  Pythia  in  the  hour 
Of  dread  communion  and  delirious  power  ; 
A  being  more  than  earthly,  in  whose  eye 
There  dwells  a  strange  and  fierce  ascendancy. 
The  flames  are  gathering  round — intensely  bright, 
Full  on  her  features  glares  their  meteor-light; 
But  a  wild  courage  sits  triumphant  there, 
The  stormy  grandeur  of  a  proud  despair  ; 
A  daring  spirit,  in  its  woes  elate, 
Mightier  than  death,  untameable  by  fate. 
The  dark  profusion  of  her  locks  unbound, 
Waves  like  a  warrior's  floating  plumage  round  ; 
Flushed  is  her  cheek,  inspired  her  haughty  mien, 
She  seems  the  avenging  goddess  of  the  scene. 
Are  those  her  infants,  that  with  suppliant  cry 
Cling  round  her,  shrinking  as  the  flame  draws  nigh, 
Clasp  with  their  feeble  hands  her  gorgeous  vest, 
And  fain  would  rush  for  shelter  to  her  breast  ? 
Is  that  a  mother's  glance,  where  stern  disdain, 
And  passion,  awfully  vindictive,  reign  ? 

Fixed  is  her  eye  on  Asdrubal,  who  stands 
Ignobly  safe  amidst  the  conquering  bands  ; 
On  him  who  left  her  to  that  burning  tomb, 
Alone  to  share  her  children's  martyrdom ; 
Who,  when  his  country  perished,  fled  the  strife, 
And  knelt  to  win  the  worthless  boon  of  life. 
"  Live,  traitor,  live  !  "  she  cries,  "  since  dear  to  thee, 
E'en  in  thy  fetters,  can  existence  be ! 
Scorned  and  dishonored  live ! — with  blasted  name, 
The  Romans  triumph  not  to  grace,  but  shame. 
O  slave  in  spirit !   bitter  be  thy  chain 
With  tenfold  anguish  to  avenge  my  pain  ! 
Still  may  the  manes  of  thy  children  rise 
To  chase  calm  slumber  from  thy  wearied  eyes 
Still  may  their  voices  on  the  haunted  air 
In  fearful  whispers  tell  thee  to  despair, 
Till  vain  remorse  thy  withered  heart  consume, 
Scourged  by  relentless  shadows  of  the  tomb  ! 
E'en  now  my  sons  shall  die,  and  thou,  their  sire, 
In  bondage  safe,  shalt  yet  in  them  expire. 
Think'st  thou  I  love  them  not  ? — 'Twas  thine  to  fly — 
'Tis  mine  with  these  to  suffer  and  to  die. 
Behold  their  fate  ! — the  arms  that  cannot  save 
Have  been  their  cradle,  and  shall  be  their  grave." 

Bright  in  her  hand  the  lifted  dagger  gleams, 

Swift  from  her  children's  hearts  the  life-blood  streams 

With  frantic  laugh  she  clasps  them  to  the  breast 

Whose  woes  and  passions  soon  shall  be  at  rest ; 

Lifts  one  appealing,  frenzied  glance  on  high, 

Then  deep  'midst  rolling  flames  is  lost  to  mortal  eye. 


112  HELIQDORUS  IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


HELIODORUS  IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


safe  and  sure,  for  those  that  had  committed  them- — 23.  Nevertheless  Hehodorus  executes 
that  which  was  decreed. — 24.  Now  as  he  was  there  present  himself,  with  his  guard  about  the 
treasury,  the  Lord  of  Spirits,  and  the  Prince  of  all  Power,  caused  a  great  apparition,  so  that  ail 
that  presumed  to  come  in  with  him  were  astonished  at  the  power  of  God,  and  fainted,  and 
were  sore  afraid. — 25.  For  there  appeared  unto  them  a  horse  with  a  terrible  rider  upon  him, 
and  adorned  with  a  very  fair  covering,  and  he  ran  fiercely,  and  smote  at  Heliodorus  with  his 


speechless,  without  all  hope  of  life."] 


A  SOUND  of  woe  in  Salem  ! — mournful  cries 

Rose  from  her  dwellings — youthful  cheeks  were  pale. 

Tears  flowing  fast  from  dim  and  aged  eyes, 
And  voices  mingling  in  tumultuous  wail ; 

Hands  raised-to  heaven  in  agony  of  prayer, 

And  powerless  wrath,  and  terror,  and  despair. 

Thy  daughters,  Judah  !  weeping,  laid  aside 

The  regal  splendor  of  their  fair  array, 
With  the  rude  sackcloth  girt  their  beauty's  pride, 

And  thronged  the  streets  in  hurrying,  wild  dismay; 
While  knelt  thy  priests  before  His  awful  shrine, 
Who  made,  of  old,  renown  and  empire  thine. 

But  on  the  spoiler  moves — the  temple's  gate, 
The  bright,  the  beautiful,  his  guards  unfold; 

And  all  the  scene  reveals  its  solemn  state, 

Its  courts  and  pillars,  rich  with  sculptured  gold ; 

And  man,  with  eye  unhallowed,  views  the  abode, 

The  severed  spot,  the  dwelling-place  of  God. 

Where  art  thou,  Mighty  Presence  !  that  of  yore 
Wert  wont  between  the  cherubim  to  rest, 

Veiled  in  a  cloud  of  glory,  shadowing  o'er 
Thy  sanctuary  the  chosen  and  the  blest  ? 

Thou  !  that  didst  make  fair  Sion's  ark  thy  throne, 

And  call  the  oracle's  recess  thine  own! 

Angel  of  God  !  that  through  the  Assyrian  host, 
Clothed  with  the  darkness  of  the  midnight  hour, 

To  tame  the  proud,  to  hush  the  invader's  boast, 
Didst  pass  triumphant  in  avenging  power 


HELIODORUS  IN  THE  TEMPLE.  1 13 


Till  burst  the  day-spring  on  the  silent  scene, 
And  death  alone  revealed  where  thou  hadst  been. 

Wilt  thou  not  \vake,  O  Chastener!  in  thy  might, 
To  guard  thine  ancient  and  majestic  hill, 

\Vhere  oft  from  heaven  the  tul  Shechinah's  light 
Hath  streamed  the  house  of  holiness  to  fill  ? 

Oh  !  yet  once  more  defend  thy  loved  domain, 

Eternal  one !  Deliverer  !  rise  again ! 

Fearless  of  thee,  the  plunderer,  undismayed, 
Hastes  on,  the  sacred  chambers  to  explore 

'Where  the  bright  treasures  of  the  fane  are  laid, 
The  orphan's  portion,  and  the  widow's  store; 

What  recks  his  heart  though  age  unsuccored  die, 

And  want  consume  the  cheek  of  infancy  ? 

Away,  intruders  I — hark!  a  mighty  sound  I 
Behold,  a  burst  of  light ! — away,  away  I 

A  fearful  glory  fills  the  temple  round, 
A  vision  bright  in  terrible  array ! 

And  lo!  a  steed  of  no  terrestrial  frame, 

His  path  a  whirlwind,  and  his  breath  a  flame  I 

His  neck  is  clothed  with  thunder  * — and  his  mane 
Seems  waving  fire — the  kindling  of  his  eye 

Is  as  a  meteor — ardent  with  disdain 

His  glance — his  gesture,  fierce  in  majesty! 

Instinct  with  light  he  seems,  and  formed  to  bear 

Some  dread  archangel  through  the  fields  of  air. 

But  who  is  he,  in  panoply  of  gold, 

Throned  on  that  burning  charger  ?  bright  his  form, 
Yet  in  its  brightness  awful  to  behold, 

And  girt  with  all  the  terrors  of  the  storm  I 
Lightning  is  on  his  helmet's  crest — and  fear 
Shrinks  from  the  splendor  of  his  brow  severe. 

And  by  his  side  two  radiant  warriors  stand 
All-armed,  and  kingly  in  commanding  grace — 

Oh  !  more  than  k>ngly— codlike  ! — sternly  grand; 
Their  port  indignant,  and  each  dazzling  face 

Beams  with  the  beauty  to  inmortals  given, 

Magnificent  in  a'.l  the'wrath  of  heaven. 

Then  sinks  each  gazer's  heart — each  knee  is  bowed 
In  trembling  awe — but,  as  to  fields  of  fight, 

The  unearthly  war-steed,  rushing  through  the  crowd. 
Bursts  on  their  leader  in  terrific  might  , 

And  the  stern  angels  of  that  dread  abode 

Pursue  its  plunderer  with  the  scourge  of  God. 


1  "Hast  thou  given  the  horse  strength?     Hast  thou   clothed  his  neck  with   thunderf 
Job  xxxix.  19. 


H4  NIGHT-SCENE  IN  GENOA. 

Darkness — thick  darkness  ! — low  on  earth  he  lies, 
Rash  Heliodorus — motionless  and  pale — 

Bloodless  his  cheek,  and  o'er  his  shrouded  eyes 
Mists,  as  of  death,  suspend  their  shadowy  veil ; 

And  thus  the  oppressor,  by  his  fear-struck  train, 

Is  borne  from  that  inviolable  fane. 

The  light  returns — the  warriors  of  the  sky 

Have  passed,  with  all  their  dreadful  pomp,  away; 

Then  wakes  the  timbrel,  swells  the  song  on  high 
Triumphant  as  in  Judah's  elder  day  ; 

Rejoice,  O  city  of  the  sacred  hill ! 

Salem,  exult !  thy  God  is  with  thee  stilL 


NIGHT-SCENE  IN  GENOA, 

FXOM  SISMONDl's   "  KBFUBLIQUBS  ITALIBNNBS." 

["  En  meme  temps  que  les  Ge'nois  poursuivoient  avec  ardeur  la  guerre  contre  Pise,  ils  e'toient 
djchires  eux-memes  par  une  discorde  civile.  Les  consuls  de  1'annee  1 169,  pour  retablir  la  paix 
dans  leur  patrie,  au  milieu  des  factions  sourdes  a  leur  voix  et  plus  puissantes  qu'eux.  furent 
obliges  d'ourdir  en  quelque  sorte  une  conspiration.  Ils  commencerent  par  s'assurer  secrete- 
ment  des  dispositions  pacifiques  de  plusieurs  des  citoyens,  qui  cependant  e'toient  entraine's  dans 
les  emeutes  par  leur  parent^  avec  les  chefs  de  faction  ;  puis,  se  concertant  avec  le  veWrabie 
vieillard,  Hugues,  leurarcheveque,  ils  firent,  long-temps  avant  le  lever.du  soleil.  appeler  au  son 
des  cloches  les  citoyens  au  parlement ;  ils  se  flattoient  que  la  surprise  et  1'alanne  de  ceite  cor.- 
yocation  inattendue,  au  milieu  de  1'obscurit^  de  la  nuit,  rendroit  1  assemblee  et  plus  complete  et 
plus  docile.  Les  citoyens,  en  accourant  au  parlement  general,  virent,  au  milieu  de  ia  place 
publiqvie,  le  vieil  archeveque,  entoure1 de  son  clerge"  en  habit  de  ce're'monies,  et  p^rtant  des  tor- 
ches allume'es,  tandis  que  les  reliques  de  Saint  Jean  Baptiste,  le  protecteur  de  Genes,  e'toient 
expose'es  devant  lui,  et  que  les  citoyens  les  plus  respectables  portoient  a  tears  mains  des  cr^:x 
suppliantes.  Des  que  1'assemblde  f  ut  forme'e,  le  vieillard  se  leva,  et  de  sa  roix  cassec  il  conjura 
les  chefs  de  parti,  au  nom  du  Dieu  de  paix,  au  nom  du  salut  de  lenrsames,  au  nom  de  leur  pa- 
tne  et  de  la  liberte,  dont  leurs  discordes  entrainaroient  la  mine,  de  jurer  sur  I'e'vangile  1'ovbli 
de  leurs  querelles,  et  la  paix  a  venir. 

"  Les  herauts,  des  qu'ii  eut  fini  de  parler,  s'avancerent  aussitot  vers  Roland  Avogado.  le  chef 
de  1'une  des  factions,  qua  ^toit  pre"sent  a  i'assembl^e,  et,  seconddspar  les  acclamations  de  tout 
le  peuple,  et  par  les  prieres  de  ses  parens  eux-memes,  ils  le  sommerent  de  se  confonner  au 
vceu  des  consuls  et  de  la  nation. 

"  Roland,  a  leur  approche,  d^chira  ses  habits,  et,  s'asseyant  par  terre  en  versant  des  larmes, 
ilappelaahaute  yoix  lesmortsqu'il  avoit  jur^  de  venger,  et  qu  nelui  permettoient  pasde  par- 
donner  leurs  vieilles  offenses.  Comme  on  ne  pouvoit  le  determiner  a  s'avancer,  les  consuls 


aTassemblde,  mais  le  peuple  et  le  emerge"  seporterent  en  foule  a  leurs  maisons:  ils  lestrouve- 
rent  d(5ji  ebranl^s  par  ce  qu'ils  venoient  d'apprendre,et,  prpfitant  de  leur  emotion,  ils  leur  firent 
j:irer  une  reconciliation  sincere,  et  donner  le  baiser  de  paix  aux  chefs  de  la  faction  opposee. 
Alors  les  cloches  de  la  ville  sonnerent  en  tdmoignage  d'all^gresse,  et  I'archeveqtie  de  retour 
»ur  la  place  publique  entonna  un  Te  Deem  avec  tout  le  peuple,  en  honneur  du  Dieu  de  pa'x 
qui  aroit  sauve  leur  patrie." — Histoire  des  Refubliques  flalitnnes,  vol.  ii.  pp.  14+,  150.] 


NIGHT-SCENE  IN  GENOA. 


IN  Genoa,  when  the  sunset  gave 
Its  last  warm  purple  to  the  wave, 
No  sound  of  war,  no  voice  of  fear, 
Was  heard,  announcing  danger  near ; 
Though  deadliest  foes  were  there,  whose 

hate 

But  slumbered  till  its  hour  of  fate, 
Vet  calmly,  at  the  twilight's  close, 
Sunk  the  wide  city  to  repose. 

But   when    deep    midnight    reigned 

around, 

All  sudden  woke  the  alarm-bell's  sound, 
Full  swelling,  while  the  hollow  breeze 
Bore  its  dread  summons  o'er  the  seas. 
Then,  Genoa,  from  their  slumber  started 
Thy  sons,  the  free,  the  fearless-hearted; 
Then  mingled  with  the  awakening  peal 
Voices,  and  steps,  and  clash  of  steel. 
Arm,  warriors,  arm  !  for  danger  calls, 
Arise  to  guard  your  native  walls  ! 
With   breathless   haste   the  gathering 

throng 

Hurry  the  echoing  streets  along  ; 
Through  darkness  rushing  to  the  scene 
Where  their  bold  counsels  still  convene, 
— Hut  there  a  blaze  of  torches  bright 
Pours  its  red  radiance  on  the  night, 
O'er  fane,  and  dome,  and  column  play- 
ing, 

With  every  fitful  night-wind  swaying  : 
Now  floating  o'er  each  tall  arcade, 
Around  the  pillared  scene  displayed, 
In  light  relieved  by  depth  of  shade  : 
And  now  with  ruddy  meteor-glare, 
Full  streaming  on  the  silvery  hair 
And  the  bright  cross  of  him  who  stands 
Rearing  that  sign  with  suppliant  hands, 
Girt  with  his  consecrated  train, 
The  hallowed  servants  of  the  fane. 
Of  life's  past  woes,  the  fading  trace 
Math  given  that  aged  patriarch's  face 
Expression  holy,  deep,  resigned, 
The  calm  sublimity  of  mind. 
Vcars  o'er  his  snowy  head  have  passed, 
And  left  him  of  his  race  the  last ; 
Alone  on  earth — yet  still  his  mien 
Is  bright  with  majesty  serene  ; 
And  those  high   hopes,  whose  guiding- 
star 

Shines  from  the  eternal  worlds  afar, 
Have  with  that  light  illumed  his  eye, 


Whose  fount  is  immortality, 

And  o'er  his  features  poured  a  ray 

Of  glory,  not  to  pass  away. 

He  seems  a  being  who  hath  known 

Communion  with  his  God  alone, 

On  earth  by  naught  but  pity's  tie 

Detained  a  moment  from  on  high  ! 

One  to  sublimer  worlds  allied, 

One,  from  all  passion  purified, 

E'en  now  halt  mingled  with  the  sky, 

And  all  prepared — oh  !  not  to  die — 

But,  like  the  prophet,  to  aspire, 

In  heaven's  triumphal  car  of  fire. 

He    speaks — and    from     the    throngs 

around 

Is  heard  not  e'en  a  whispered  sound  ; 
Awe-struck  each  heart,  and  fixed  each 

glance, 

They  stand  as  in  a  spell-bound  trance ; 
He    speaks — oh !    who  can   hear  noi 

own 
The  might  of  each  prevailing  tone  ? 

"  Chieftains    and    warriors !    ye,  sc 

long 

Aroused  to  strife  by  mutual  wrong, 
Whose  fierce  and  far-transmitted  hate 
Hath  made  your  country  desolate  ; 
Now  by  the  love  ye  bear  her  name, 
By  that  pure  spark  of  holy  flame 
On  freedom's  altar  brightly  burning, 
But,  once  extinguished,  ne'er  returning 
By  all  your  hopes  of  bliss  to  come, 
When  burst  the  bondage  of  the  tomb; 
By  Him,  the  God  who  bade  us  live 
To  aid  each  other,  and  forgive — 
I  call  upon  ye  to  resign 
Your  discords  at  your  country's  shrine, 
Each  ancient  feud  in  peace  atone, 
Wield  your  keen  swords  for  her  alone, 
And  swear  upon  the  cross,  to  cast 
Oblivion's  mantle  o'er  the  past  1  " 

No  voice  replies.     The  holy  bands 
Advance  to  where  yon  chieftain  stands, 
With  folded  arms,  and  brow  of  gloom 
O'ershadowed  by  his  floating  plume. 
To  him  they  lift  the  cross — in  vain  : 
He  turns — oh  !  say  not  with  disdain, 
But  with  a  mien  of  haughty  grief, 
That  seeks  not,  e'en  from  heaven,  J> 
lief. 


NIGHT-SCENE  IN  GENOA. 


He  rends  his  robes — he  sternly  speaks — 
Yet  tears  are  on  the  warrior's  cheeks. 

"  Father !  not  thus  the  wounds  may 

close, 

Inflicted  by  eternal  foes. 
Deemest  thou  thy  mandate  can  efface 
The  dread  volcano's  burning  trace  ? 
Or  bid  the  earthquake's  ravaged  scene 
Be  smiling  as  it  once  hath  been  ? 
No !    for    the    deeds  the  sword   hath 

done 

Forgiveness  is  not  lightly  won ; 
The  words  by  hatred  spoke  may  not 
Be  as  a  summer  breeze  forgot ! 
'Tis  vain — we  deem  the  war-feud's  rage 
A  portion  of  our  heritage. 
Leaders,   now   slumbering    with    their 

fame, 

Bequeathed  us  that  undying  flame  ; 
Hearts  that   have  lonp  been  still  and 

cold 

Yet  rule  us  from  their  silent  mould; 
And  voices,  heard  on  earth  no  more, 
Speak  to  our  spirits  as  of  yore. 
Talk  not  of  mercy — blood  alone 
The  stain  of  bloodshed  may  atone  ; 
Naught  else  can  pay  that  mighty  debt, 
The  dead  forbid  us  to  forget." 

He  pauses — from  the  patriarch's  brow 
There  beams  more  lofty  grandeur  now ; 
His  rever«nd  form,  his  aged  hand, 
Assume  a  gesture  of  command, 
His  voice  is  awful,  and  his  eye 
Filled  with  prophetic  majesty. 

"  The  dead  I — and  deemest  thou  they 

retain 

Aught  of  terrestrial  passion's  stain  ? 
Of  guilt  incurred  in  days  gone  by, 
Aught  but  the  fearful  penalty  ? 
And  sayest  thou,  mortal  1  blood  alone 
For  deeds  of  slaughter  may  atone  ? 
There  hath  been  blood — by  Him  'twas 

shed 

To  exp  ate  every  crime  who  bled ; 
The  absolving  God  who  died  to  save, 
And  rose  in  victory  from  the  grave  ! 
And  by  that  stainless  offering  given 
Alike  for  all  on  earth  to  heaven- 
By  that  inevitable  hour 


When  death  shall  vanquish  pride  and 

power, 

And  each  departing  passion's  force 
Concentrate  all  in  lato  remorse  ; 
And  by  the  day  when  doom  shall  be 
Passed   on   earth's    millions,    and    on 

thee— 

The  doom  that  shall  not  be  repealed, 
Once  uttered,  and  forever  sealed — 
I  summon  thee,  O  child  of  clay ! 
To  cast  thy  darker  thoughts  away, 
And  meet  thy  foes  in  peace  and  love, 
As  thou  wouldst  join  the  blest  above." 

Still  as  he  speaks,  unwonted  feeling 
Is  o'er  the  chieftain's  bosom  stealing; 
Oh  !  not  in  vain  the  pleading  cries 
Of  anxious  thousands  round  him  rise ; 
He  yields — devotion's  mingled  sense 
Of  faith,  and  fear,  and  penitence, 
Pervading  all  his  soul,  he  bows 
To  offer  on  the  cross  his  vows, 
And  that  best  incense  to  the  skies, 
Each  evil  passion's  sacrifice. 

Then  tears  from  warriors'  eyes  were 
flowing,  [ing ; 

High  hearts  with  soft  emotions  glow- 
Stern  foes  as  long-loved  brothers  greet- 
ing, [ing; 
And  ardent  throngs  in  transport  mcet- 
And  eager  footsteps  forward  pressing, 
And  accents  loud  in  joyous  blessing ; 
And  when  their  first  wild  tumults  cease, 
A  thousand  voices  echo  "  Peace  ! " 

Twilight's  dim  mist  hath  rolled  away, 
And  the  rich  Orient  burns  with  day  ; 
Then  as  to  greet  the  sunbeam's  birth, 
Rises  the  choral  hymn  of  earth — 
The   exulting    strain    through    Genoq 

swelling, 
Of  peace  and  holy  rapture  telling. 

Far  float  the  sounds  o'er  vale  and 

steep, 

The  seaman  hears  them  on  the  deep, 
So  mellowed  by  the  gale,  they  seem 
As  the  wild  music  of  a  dream. 
But  not  on  mortal  ear  alone 
Peals  the  triumphant  anthem's  tone; 
For  beings  of  a  purer  sphere 
Bend  with  celestial'  joy  to  hear. 


THE  TROUBADOUR  AND  RICHARD  CCEUR  DE  LION.     117 


THE  TROUBADOUR 


AND 


RICHARD  CCEUR  DE  LION. 


'  Not  only  the  place  of  Richard's  confinement "  (when  thrown  into  prison  by  the  Duke  ol 
Austria),  "if  we  believe  the  literary  history  of  the  times,  but  even  the  circumstance  of  his  cap- 
tivity, was  carefully  concealed  by  his  vindictive  enemies :  and  both  might  have  remained  un- 
known but  for  the  grateful  attachment  of  a  Provencal  bard,  or  minstrel,  named  Blondel,  who 
had  shared  that  prince's  friendship  and  tasted  his  bounty.  Having  travelled  over  all  the 
European  continent  to  learn  the  destiny  of  his  beloved  patron,  Bipndel  accidentally  got  in- 
telligence of  a  certain  castle  in  Germany,  where  a  prisoner  of  distinction  was  confined,  and 
guarded  with  great  vigilance.  Persuaded  by  a  secret  impulse  that  this  prisoner  was  the  King 
of  England,  the  minstrel  repaired  to  the  place  :  but  the  gates  of  the  castle  were  shut  against 
him,  and  he  could  obtain  no  information  relative  to  the  name  or  quality  of  the  unhappy  person 
it  secured.  In  this  extremity,  he  bethought  himself  of  an  expedient  for  making  the  desired 
discovery.  He  chanted,  with  a  loud  voice,  some  verses  of  a  song  which  had  been  composed 
partly  by  himself,  partly  by  Richard;  and  to  his  unspeakable  joy,  on  making  a  pause,  he 
heard  it  re-echoed  and  continued  by  the  royal  captive. — Hist.  Trotibadovrs,  To  this  dis. 
covery  the  English  monarch  is  said  to  have  eventually  owed  his  release." — See  RUSSKL'S 
Modern  Europe,  vol-  i.  p.  369.] 


THE  Troubadour  o'er  many  a  plain 
I  huh  roamed  unwearied,  but  in  vain. 
O'er  many  a  rugged  mountain-scene 
And  forest  wild  his  track  hath  been  ; 
Beneath  Calabria's  glowing  sky 
He  hath  sung  the  songs  of  chivalry; 
His  voice  hath  swelled  on  the  Alpine 

breeze, 

And  rung  through  the  snowy  Pyrenees ; 
From  Ebro's  banks  to  Danube's  wave, 
He  hath  sought  his  prince,  the  loved, 

the  brave  : 

A    1  yet,  if  still  on  earth  thou  art, 
f  ';,  monarch  of  the  lion-heart ! 
The  faithful  spirit,  which  distress 
But  heightens  to  devotedness, 
By  toil  and  trial  vanquished  not, 
Shall  guide  thy  minstrel  to  the  spot. 

He  hath  reached  a  mountain  hung 

with  vine, 
And  woods  that  wave  o'er  the  lovely 

Rhine  : 

The  feudal  towers  that  crest  its  height 
Frown  in  unconquerable  might ; 
Dark  is  their  aspect  of  sullen  state — 
No  helmet  hangs  o'er  the  massy  gate 


To  bid  the  wearied  pilgrim  rest, 

At   the   chieftain's   board  a  welcome 

guest ; 

Vainly  rich  evening's  parting  smile 
Would  chase  the  gloom  of  the  haught\ 

pile, 
That  'midst  bright  sunshine  lowers  on 

high, 
Like    a  thunder-cloud  in  a    summer 

sky. 

Not  these  the  halls  where  a  child  of 

song 

Awhile  may  speed  the  hours  along  ; 
Their  echoes  should  repeat  alone 
The  tyrant's  mandate,  the  prisoner'* 

moan, 

Or  the  wild  huntsman's  bugle-blast, 
When  his  phantom-train  are  hurryi:>; 

past. 

The  weary  minstrel  paused — his  eye 
Ro.ved  o'er  the  scene  despondingly  : 
Within  the  lengthening  shadow,  cast 
By  the  fortress-towers  and   ramparts 

vast, 

Lingering  he  gazed.     The  rocks  around 
Sublime  in  savage  grandeur  frowned; 


Jl8     THE  TROUBADOUR  AND  RICHARD  CCEUR  DE  LION. 


Proud  guardians  of  the  regal  flood 
In  giant  strength  the  mountains  stood — 
By  torrents  cleft,  by  tempests  riven, 
Vet  mingling  still  with  the  calm  blue 

heaven. 
Their  peaks  were  bright  with  a  sunny 

glow, 

But  the  Rhine  all  shadowy  rolled  be- 
low; 

In  purple  tints  the  vineyards  smiled, 
But  the  woods  beyond  waved  dark  and 

wild : 

Nor  pastoral  pipe,  nor  convent's  bell, 
Was  heard  on  the  sighing  breeze  to 

swell ; 

But  all  was  lonely,  silent,  rude, 
A  stern,  yet  glorious  solitude. 

But   hark !     that    solemn    stillness 

breaking, 

The  Troubadour's  wild  song  is  waking. 
Full  oft  that  song,  in  days  gone  by, 
Hath  cheered  the  sons  of  chivalry  ; 
It  hath  swelled  o'er  Judah's  mountains 

lone, 
Hermon  !  thy  echoes  have  learned  its 

tone  ; 

On  the  Great  Plain  its  notes  have  rung, 
The  leagued  Crusaders'  tents  among; 
'Twas   loved   by  the   Lion   heart,  who 

won 

The  palm  in  the  field  of  Ascalon  ; 
And  now  afar  o'er  the  rocks  of  Rhine 
Peals  the  bold  strain  of  Palestine. 


THE  TROUBADOUR'S  SONG. 

*  Thine  hour  is  come,  and  the  stake  is 

set," 
The    Soldan   cried    to    the    captive 

knight, 
'*  And   the   sons    of    the    Prophet    in 

throngs  are  met 
To  gaze  on  the  fearful  sight. 

"  But  be  our  faith  by  thy  lips  professed, 
The  faith  of  Mecca's  shrine, 

Cast  down  the  red-cross  that  marks  thy 

vest, 
And  life  shall  yet  be  thine." 


"  I  have  seen  the  flow  of  my  bosom's 

blood, 

And  gazed  with  undaunted  eye  ; 
I  have  born  the  bright  cross  through 

fire  and  blood 
And  think'st  thou  I  fear  to  die  ? 

"  I  have  stood  where    thousands,  by 

Salem's  towers, 

Have  fallen  for  the  name  Divine  ; 
And  the  faith  that  cheered  their  closing 

hours 
Shall  be  the  light  of  mine." 

"  Thus  wilt  thou  die  in   the   pride   of 

health, 

And  the  glow  of  youth's  fresh  bloom  ? 
Thou  art  offered  life,  and  pomp,  and 

wealth, 
Or  torture  and  the  tomb." 

"  I  have  been  where  the  crown  of  thorns 

was  twined 

For  a  dying  Saviour's  brow  ; 
He  spurned  the  treasures  that  lure  man- 
kind, 
And  I  reject  them  now  ! " 

"Art  thou  the  son  of  a  noble  line 
In  a  land  that  is  fair  and  blest ! 

And  doth  not  thy  spirit,  proud  captive  ! 

pine, 
Again  on  its  shores  to  rest  ? 

"  Thine  own  is  the  choice  to  hail   once 

more 

The  soil  of  thy  father's  birth, 
Or  to  sleep,  when  thy  lingering  pangs 
are  o'er, 
Forgotten  in  foreign  earth." 

"  Oh  !  fair  are  the  vine-clad  hills  that 

rise 

In  the  country  of  my  love  ; 
But  yet,  though  cloudless  my  native 

skies, 
There's  a  brighter  clime  above  !  " 

The    bard  hath  paused — for    another 

tone 

Blends  with  the  music  of  his  own ; 
And   his  heart  beats   high  with  hope 

again, 
As  a  well-known  voice  prolongs  the 

strain. 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  CONRADJN. 


119 


'Are  there  none  within  thy  father's 

hall, 

Far  o'er  the  wide  blue  main, 
Young  Christian !  left  to  deplore  thy 

fall 
With  sorrow  deep  and  vain  ?  " 

There  are  hearts  that  still,  through 

all  the  past, 

Unchanging  have  loved  me  well  ; 
i  here    are    eyes    whose     tears    were 

streaming  fast 
\Yhen  I  bade  my  home  farewell. 

Better   they  wept    o'er    the  warrior's 

bier 

Than  the  apostate's  living  stain ; 
There's  a  land  where  those  who  loved 

when  here, 
Shall  meet  to  love  again." 


'Tis  he  !  thy  prince — long  sought,  long 

lost. 

The  leader  of  the  red-cross  host ! 
'Tis  he  ! — to  none  thy  joy  betray, 
Young  Troubadour!  away,  away  ! 
Away  to  the  island  of  the  brave, 
The  gem  on  the  bosom  of  the  wave, 
Arouse  the  sons  of  the  noble  soil, 
To  win  their  Lion  from  the  toil ; 
And  free  the  wassail-cup  shall  flow, 
Bright  in  each  hall  the  hearth  shall  glow; 
The     festal    board     shall    be     richly 

crowned, 
While    knights   and    chieftains    revel 

round, 
And  a  thousand  harps  with  joy  shall 

ring, 
When  merry  England  hails  her  king. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CONRADIN. 

FROM  SISMONDl's  "  REPUBLIQUKS  ITALJENNBS." 

La  defaite  de  Conradin  ne  devoit  mettre  une  terme  ni  a  ses  malheurs,  ni  aux  vengeances  du 
roi  (Charles  d'Anjou).  L'amour  du  peuple  pour  1'heritier  legitime  du  trone,  avoit  eclate 
d'une  maniere  eff  rayante  ;  il  pouvoit  causer  de  nouvelles  revolution,  si  Conradin  demeuroit 
en  vie :  et  Charles,  revetant  sa  defiance  et  sa  cruaute  des  formes  de  la  justice,  resolut  de 
faire  perir  sur  1'echafaud  le  deraiw  rejeton  de  la  Maison  de  Souabe,  1'unique  esperance  de 
son  parti.  Un  seul  juge  proven^al  et  sujet  de  Charles,  dont  les  historiens  n'ont  pas  voulu 
conserver  le  nom,  osa  voter  pour  la  mort,  d'autres  se  renfermerent  dans  untimideet  coupable 
silence  ;  et  Charles,  sur  1'autorite  de  ce  seul  juge,  fit  prononcer,  par  Robert  de  Bari,  proto- 
notaire  du  royaume,  la  sentence  de  mort  centre  Conradin  et  tous  ces  compagnons.  Cette 
sentence  fut  communiqr.ee  a  Conradin,  comme  il  jouoit  aux  tehees ;  on  lui  laissa  peu  de 
temps  pour  se  preparer  a  son  execution,  et  la  26  d'Octobre  il  fut  conduit,  avec  tous  ses  amis, 
sur  la  Place  du  March^  de  Naples,  le  long  du  rivage  de  la  mer.  Charles  e'toit  present,  avec 
toute  sa  cour,  et  une  foule  immense  entouroit  le  roi  vainqueur  et  le  roi  condamn£.  Con- 
ratlin  etoit  er.tre  les  mains  des  bourreaux  ;  il  ddtacha  lui-meme  son  manteau,  et  s'etant  mis 
a  genoux  pour  pner,  il  se  releva  en  s'ecriant :  '  Oh,  ma  mere,  quelle  profonde  douleur  te 
causera  la  nouvelle  qu'on  va  te  porter  de  moi  !  '  Puis  il  tourna  les  yeux  sur  la  foule  qui 
1'entouroit ;  il  vit  les  larmes,  il  entendit  les  sanglots  de  son  peuple  ;  alors.  detachant  son 
pant,  il  jeta  au  milieu  de  ses  sujets  ce  gage  d'un  combat  de  vengeance,  et  rendit  sa  tete  au 
bourreau.  Apres  lui,  sur  le  meme  echafaud,  Charles  fit  trancher  la  tete  an  Due  d'Autriche, 
aux  Comtes  Gualferano  et  Bartolommeo  Lancia,  et  aux  Comtes  Gerard  tt  Gaivano  Dono- 
ratico  de  Pi.se.  Par  un  rafinement  de  cruaute,  Charles  voulut  que  le  premier,  fi's  du  second, 
precedat  son  pere,  et  mourut  entre  ses  bras.  Les  cadavres,  d'apres  ses  indre--,  furent  ex- 
clus  d'une  terre  sainte,  et  inhumes  sans  pompe  sur  le  rivage  de  la  meV.  Charles  II.,  cepen- 
dant  fit  dans  la  suite,  batir  sur  le  meme  lieu  uue  eglise  de  Carmelites,  comino  pour  appaiser 
ces  ombres  irnt^es."] 

No  cloud  to  dim  the  splendor  of  the  day 
Which  breaks  o'er  Naples  and  her  lovely  bay, 
And  lights  that  brilliant  sea  and  magic  shore 
With  every  tint  that  charmed  the  great  of  yore — 


120  THE  DEATH  OF  CONRAD2A: 

The  imperial  ones  of  earth,  who  proudly  bade 
Their  marble  domes  e'en  Ocean's  realm' invade. 

That  race  is  gone — but  glorious  Nature  here 
Maintains  unchanged  her  own  sublime  career, 
And  bids  these  regions  of  the  sun  display 
Bright  hues,  surviving  empires  passed  away. 

THE  beam  of  heaven  expands — its  kindling  smile 
Reveals  each  charm  of  many  a  fairy  isle, 
Whose  image  floats,  in  softer  coloring  drest, 
With  all  its  rocks  and  vines,  on  Ocean's  breast. 
Misenum's  cape  hath  caught  the  vivid  ray, 
On  Roman  streamers  there  no  more  to  play; 
Still  as  of  old  unalterably  bright, 
Lovely  it  sleeps  on  Posilippo's  height, 
With  all  Italia's  sunshine  to  illume 
The  ilex  canopy  of  Virgil's  tomb. 
Campania's  plains  rejoice  in  light,  and  spread 
Their  gay  luxuriance  o'er  the  mighty  dead  ; 
Fair  glittering  to  thine  own  transparent  skies, 
Thy  palaces,  exulting  Naples  !  rise  ; 
While,  far  on  high,  Vesuvius  rears  his  peak, 
Furrowed  and  dark  with  many  a  lava  streak. 

Oh,  ye  bright  shores  of  Circe  and  the  Muse 
Rich  with  all  Nature's  and  all  fiction's  hues ; 
Who  shall  explore  your  regions,  and  declare 
The  poet  erred  to  paint  Elysium  there  ? 
Call  up  his  spirit,  wanderer  !  bid  him  guide 
Thy  steps,  those  siren-haunted  seas  beside ; 
And  all  the  scene  a  lovelier  light  shall  wear, 
And  spells  more  potent  shall  pervade  the  air. 
What  though  his  dust  be  scattered,  and  his  urn 
Long  from  its  sanctuary  of  slumber  torn, 
Still  dwell  the  beings  of  his  verse  around, 
Hovering  in  beauty  o'er  the  enchanted  ground : 
His  lays  are  murmured  in  each  breeze  that  roves 
Soft  o'er  the  sunny  waves  and  orange  groves ; 
His  memory's  charm  is  spread  o'er  shore  and  sea, 
The  soul,  the  genius  of  Parthenope ; 
Shedding  o'er  myrtle  shade  and  vine-clad  hill 
The  purple  radiance  of  Elysium  still. 

Yet  that  fair  soil  and  calm  resplendent  sky 
Have  witnessed  many  a  dark  reality. 
Oft  o'er  those  bright  blue  seas  the  gale  hath  borne 
The  sighs  of  exiles  never  to  return. 
There  with  the  whisper  of  Campania's  gale 
Hath  mingled  oft  affection's  funeral-wail, 
Mourning  for  buried  heroes-^-while  to  her 
That  glov/ing  land  was  but  her  sepulchre. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CONRADIX.  121 

And  there,  of  old,  the  dread  mysterious,  moan 
Swelled  from  strange  voices  of  no  mortal  tone  ; 
And  that  wild  trumpet,  whose  unearthly  note 
Was  heard  at  midnight,  o'er  the  hills  to  float 
Around  the  spot  where  Agrippina  died, 
Denouncing  vengeance  on  the  matricide. 

Passed  are  those  ages — yet  another  crime, 
Another  woe,  must  strain  the  Elysian  clime. 
There  stands  a  scaffold  on  the  sunny  shore — 
It- must  be  crimsoned  ere  the  day  is  o'er  ! 
There  is  a  throne  in  regal  pomp  arrayed, — 
A  scene  of  death  from  thence  must  be  surveyed. 
Marked  ye  the  rushing  throngs  ? — each  mien  is  pale, 
Each  hurried  glance  reveals  a  fearful  tale  : 
But  the  deep  workings  of  the  indignant  breast, 
Wrath,  hatred,  pity,  must  be  all  suppressed  ; 
The  burning  tear  awhile  must  check  its  course, 
The  avenging  thought  concentrate  all  its  force  ; 
For  tyranny  is  near,  and  will  not  brook 
Aught  but  submission  in  each  guarded  look. 

Girt  with  his  fierce  Provencals,  and  with  mien 
Austere  in  triumph,  gazing  on  the  scene, 
And  in  his  eye  a  keen  suspicious  glance 
Of  jealous  pride  and  restless  vigilance, 
Behold  the  conqueror  !     Vainly  in  his  face, 
Of  gentler  feeling  hope  would  seek  a  trace ; 
Cold,  proud,  severe,  the  spirit  which  hath  lent 
Its  haughty  stamp  to  each  dark  lineament ; 
And  pleading  mercy,  in  the  sternness  there, 
May  read  at  once  her  sentence — to  despair  ! 

Bui  thou,  fair  boy  !  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
Thus  passing  from  the  dungeon  to  the  grave, 
While  all  is  yet  around  thee  which  can  give 
A  charm  to  earth,  and  make  it  bliss  to  live  ; 
Thou  on  whose  form  hath  dwelt  a  mother's  eye, 
Till  the  deep  love  that  not  with  thee  shall  die 
Hath  grown  too  full  for  utterance — Can  it  be  ? 
And  is  this  pomp  of  death  prepared  for  thee  ? 
Young,  royal  Conraclin !  who  shoulclst  have  knovm 
Of  life  as  yet  the  sunny  smile  alone  ! 
Oh  !  who  can  view  thee,  in  the  pride  and  bloom 
Of  youth,  arrayed  so  richly  for  the  tomb, 
Nor  feel,  deep  swelling  in  his  inmost  soul, 
Emotions  tyranny  may  ne'er  control  ? 
Bright  victim  !  to  Ambition's  altar  led, 
Crowned  with  all  flowers  that  heaven  on  earth  can  shed, 
Who,  from  the  oppressor  towering  in  his  pride, 
May  hope  for  mercy — if  to  the?  denied  ? 


(22  THE  DEA  TH  OF  COX R ADI N. 

There  is  dead  silence  on  the  breathless  throng, 

Dead  silence  all  the  peopled  shore  along, 

As  on  the  captive  moves — the  only  sound, 

To  break  that  calm  so  fearfully  profound, 

The  low,  sweet  murmur  of  the  rippling  wave, 

Soft  as  it  glides,  the  smiling  shore  to  lave  ; 

While  on  that  shore,  his  own  fair  heritage, 

The  youthful  martyr  to  a  tyrant's  rage 

Is  passing  to  his  fate :  the  eyes  are  dim 

Which  gaze,  through  tears  that  dare  not  flow,  on  him. 

He  mounts  the  scaffold — doth  his  footstep  fail  ? 

Doth  his  lip  quiver  ?  doth  his  cheek  turn  pale  ? 

Oh  !  it  may  be  forgiven  him  if  a  thought 

Cling  to  that  world,  for  him  with  beauty  fraught, 

To  all  the  hopes  that  promised  glory's  meed, 

And  all  the  affections  that  with  him  shall  bleed ! 

If,  in  his  Kfe's  young  day-spring,  while  the  rose 

Of  boyhood  on  his  cheek  yet  freshly  glows, 

One  human  fear  convulse  his  parting  breath, 

And  shrink  from  all  the  bitterness  of  death ! 

But  no  !  the  spirit  of  his  royal  race 
Sits  brightly  on  his  brow — that  youthful  face 
Beams  with  heroic  beauty,  and  his  eye 
Is  eloquent  with  injured  majesty. 
He  kneels — but  not  to  man — his  heart  shall  own 
Such  deep  submission  to  his  God  alone  ! 
And  who  can  tell  with  that  sustaining  power 
That  God  may  visit  him  in  fate's  dread  hour  ? 
How  the  still  voice,  that  answers  every  moan, 
May  speak  of  hope — when  hope  on  earth  is  gone ! 

That  solemn  pause  is  o'er — the  youth  hath  given 
One  glance  of  parting  love  to  earth  and  heaven : 
The  sun  rejoices  in  the  unclouded  sky. 
Life  all  around  him  glows — and  he  must  die  ! 
Yet  'midst  his  people,  undismayed,  he  throws 
The  gage  of  vengeance  for  a  thousand  woes  ; 
Vengeance  that,  like  their  own  volcano's  fire, 
May  sleep  suppressed  awhile — but  not  expire. 
One  softer  image  rises  o'er  his  breast, 
One  fond  regret  and  all  shall  be  at  rest  ! 
"  Alas,  for  thee,  my  mother !  who  shall  bear 
To  thy  sad  heart  the  tidings  of  despair, 
When  thy  lost  child  is  gone  ?  "—that  thought  can  thrill 
His  soul  with  pangs  one  moment  more  shall  still. 
The  lifted  axe  is  glittering  in  the  sun — 
It  falls — the  race  of  Conradin  is  run ! 
Yet,  from  the  blood  which  flows  that  shore  to  stain, 
A  voice  shall  cry  to  heaven — nnd  not  in  vain ! 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS.  123 

Gaze  thou,  triumphant  from  thy  gorgeous  throne, 
In  proud  supremacy  of  guilt  alone, 
Charles  of  Anjou!  —  but  that  dread  voice  shall  be 
A  fearful  summoner  e'en  yet  to  thee  ! 

The  scene  of  death  is  closed  —  the  throngs  depart, 
A  deep  stern  lesson  graved  on  every  heart. 
No  pomp,  no  funeral  rites,  no  streaming  eyes, 
High-minded  boy!  may  grace  thine  obsequies. 
Oh,  vainly  royal  and  beloved  !  thy  grave, 
Unsanctified,  is  bathed  by  Ocean's  wave; 
Marked  by  no  stone,  a  rude,  neglected  spot, 
Unhonored,  unadorned  —  but  unforgot  ; 
•  For  thy  deep  wrongs  in  tameless  hearts  shall  live, 
Now  mutely  suffering  —  never  to  forgive! 

The  sun  fades  from  purple  heavens  away  — 
A  bark  hath  anchored  in  the  unruffled  bay  ; 
Thence  on  the  beach  descends  a  female  form, 
Her  mien  with  hope  and  tearful  transport  warm  ; 
But  life  hath  left  sad  traces  on  her  cheek, 
And  her  soft  eyes  a  chastened  heart  bespeak, 

Inured  to  woes  —  yet  what  were  all  the  past! 

She  sank  not  feebly  'neath  affliction's  blast, 

While  one  bright  hope  remained  —  who  now  shall  tell 

The  uncrowned,  the  widowed,  how  her  loved  one  fell  ? 

To  clasp  her  child,  to  ransom  and  to  savj, 

The  mother  came  —  and  she  hath  found  his  grave  ! 

And  by  that  grave,  transfixed  in  speechless  grief, 

Whose  deathlike  trance  denies  a  tear's  relief, 

Awhile  she  kneels  —  till  roused  at  length  to  know, 

To  feel  the  might,  the  fulness  of  her  woe, 

On  the  still  air  a  voice  of  anguish  wild, 
A  mother's  cry  is  heard  —  "  My  Conradin  !  my  child  !" 

LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 

THB  following  pieces  may  so  far  be  considered  a  series,  as  each  is  intended  to  be  commemo- 
rat;vL-  of  some  national  recollection,  popular  custom,  or  tradition.     Tne  idea  » 
Herder's  "Stimmen  der  Vdlker  in  Ludern.  ;  "  the  execution  is,  however,  diifercnt,  as  the  poems 
in  his  collection  are  chiefly  translations. 

MOORISH  BRIDAL  SONG. 

["  It  is  a  custom  among  the  Moors,  that  a  female  who  dies  unmarried  is  clothed  for  intermen 
in  wedding  apparel,  and  the  bridal-song  is  sung  over  her  remains  before  they  aie  borne  Irorn  hei 
home."—  See  M*  Narrative  of  a  Ten  Years'  Residence  in  Tripoli,  by  the  lister-  in-law  tf  Mr. 


THE  citron-groves  their  fruit  and  flowers  were  strewing 
Around  a  Moorish  palace,  while  the  sigh 
Of  low  sweet  summer  winds  the  branches  wooing 
With  music  through  their  shadowy  bower;  went  by; 


124  LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 

Music  and  voices,  from  the  marble  halls 
Through  the  leaves  gleaming,  and  the  fountain-falls. 

A  song  of  joy,  a  bridal  song  came  swelling 
To' blend  with  fragrance  in  those  southern  shades, 
And  told  of  feasts  within  the  stately  dwelling, 
Bright  lamps,  and  dancing  steps,  and  gem-crowned  maid»  J 
And  thus  it  flowed  : — vet  something  in  the  lay 
"Belonged  to  sadness,  as  ft  died  away. 

"  The  bride  comes  forth  I  her  tears  no  more  are  falling 
To  leave  the  chamber  of  her  infant  years  ; 
Kind  voices  from  a  distant  home  are  calling  ; 
She  comes  like  day-spring — she  hath  done  with  tears; 
Now  must  her  dark  eye  shine  on  other  flowers, 
Her  soft  smile  gladden  other  hearts  than  ours ! — 

Pour  the  rich  odors  round! 

"We  haste  !  the  chosen  and  the  lovely  bringing; 
Love  still  goes  with  her   from  her  place  of  birth  ; 
Deep,  silent  joy  within  her  soul  is  springing, 
Though  in  her  glance  the  light  no  more  is  mirth  ! 
Her  beauty  leaves  us  in  its  rosy  years  ; 
Her  sister  weep — but  she  hath  done  with  tears  ! — 

Now  may  the  timbrel  sound  1 

Know'st  thou  for  -whom  they  sang  the  bridal  numbers  ? — 
One,  whose  rich  tresses  were  to  wave  no  more  ! 
One,  whose  pale  cheek  soft  winds,  nor  gentle  slumbers, 
Nor  Love's  own  sigh,  to  rose-tints  might  restore  ! 
Her  graceful  ringlets  o'er  a  bier  were  spread. 
Weep  for  the  young,  the  beautiful, — the  dead  1 


THE  BIRD'S  RELEASE. 

fThe  Indians  of  Bengal  and  of  the  coast  of  Malabar  bring  cages  filled  with  birds  to  the  graves  o£ 
their  friends,  over  which  they  set  the  birds  at  liberty.  This  custom  is  alluded  to  in  the  de- 
scription of  Virginia's  funeral.— See  Paul  and  Virginia.} 

Go  forth  !  for  she  is  gone ! 
With  the  golden  light  of  her  wavy  hair, 
She  has  gone  to  the  fields  of  the  viewless  air 

She  hath  left  her  dwelling  lone  ! 

Her  voice  hath  passed  away  ! 
It  hath  passed  away  like  a  summer  breeze, 
When  it  leaves  the  hills  for  the  fair  blue  seas, 

Where  we  may  not  trace  its  way. 

Go  forth,  and  like  her  be  free  ! 
With  thy  radiant  wing,  and  thy  glancing  eye, 
Thou  hast  all  the  range  of  the  sunny  sky, 

And  what  is  our  grief  to  thee  ? 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS.  1 25 


Is  it  aught  e'en  to  her  we  mourn  ? 
Doth  she  look  on  the  tears  by  her  kindred  shed  ? 
Doth  she  rest  with  the  flowers  o'er  her  gentle  head, 

Or  float,  on  the  light  wind  borne  ? 

We  know  not — but  she  is  gone  \ 
Her  step  from  the  dance,  her  voice  from  the  song, 
And  the  smile  of  her  eye  from  the  festal  throng ; 
She  hath  left  her  dwelling  lone  ! 

When  the  waves  at  sunset  shine, 
We  may  hear  thy  voice  amidst  thousands  more, 
In  the  scented  woods  of  our  glowing  shor*  ; 

But  we  shall  not  know  'tis -thine! 

Even  so  with  the  loved  one  flown ! 
Her  smile  on  the  starlight  may  wander  by, 
Her  breath  may  be  near  in  the  wind's  low  sigh, 

Around  us — but  all  unknown. 

Go  forth,  we  have  loosed  thy  chain  ! 
We  may  deck  thy  cage  with  the  richest  flowers 
Which  the  bright  day  rears  in  our  eastern  bowers  ; 

But  thou  wilt  not  be  lured  again. 

Even  thus  may  the  summer  pour 
All  fragrant  things  on  the  land's  green  breast, 
And  the  glorious  earth  like  a  bride  be  dressed, 

But  it  wins  her  back  no  more  1 


THE  SWORD  OF  THE  TOMB. 

A   NORTHERN    LEGEND. 

[The  idea  oi  this  ballad  is  taken  irom  a  scene  in  Starkolher,  a  tragedy  by  the  Danish  poet 
Ochlensch'.ager.  The  sepulchral  fire  here  alluded  to,  and  supposed  to  guard  the  ashes  ot 
deceased  heroes,  is  frequently  mentioned  in  the  Northern  Sagas.  Severe  sufferings  to  the 
departed  spirit  were  supposed  by  the  Scandinavian  mythologists  to  be  the  cons«quence  of 
any  profanation  of  the  sepulchre. — See  OCHLBNSCHLAGER'S  Play*.} 

"VoiCE  of  the  gifted  elder  time! 
Voice  of  the  charm  and  the  Runic  rhyme  ! 
Speak!  from  the  shades  and  the  depths  disclose 
How  Sigurd  may  vanquish  his  mortal  foes ; 
Voice  of  the  buried  past  1 

"  Voice  of  the  grave  !  'tis  the  mighty  hour 
When  night  with  her  stars  and  dreams  hath  power, 
And  my  step  hath  been  soundless  on  the  snows, 
And  the  spell  I  have  sung  hath  laid  repose 
On  the  billow  and  the  blast." 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


Then  the  torrents  of  the  North 
And  the  forest  pines  were  still, 
While  a  hollow  chant  came  forth 
From  the  dark  sepulchral  hill. 

"  There  shines  no  sun  midst  the  hidden  dead, 
But  where  the  day  looks  not  the  brave  may  tread; 
There  is  heard  no  song,  and  no  mead  is  poured, 
But  the  warrior  may  come  to  the  silent  board 
In  the  shadow  of  the  night. 

"  There  is  laid  a  sword  in  thy  father's  tomb, 
And  its  edge  is  fraught  with  thy  foeman's  doom,' 
But  soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep, 
And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep, 
For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might  1  " 

Then  died  the  solemn  lay, 
As  a  trumpet's  music  dies, 
By  the  night-wind'borne  away 
Through  the  wild  and  stormy  skies. 

The  fir-trees  rocked  to  the  wailing  blast, 
As  on  through  the  forest  the  warrior  passed  — 
Through  the  forest  of  Odin,  the  dim  and  old  — 
The  dark  place  of  visions  and  legends,  told 
By  the  fires  of  Northern  pine. 

The  fir-trees  rocked,  and  the  frozen  ground 
Gave  back  to  his  footstep  a  hollow  sound  ; 
And  it  seemed  that  the  depths  of  those  awful  shades, 
From  the  dreary  gloom  of  their  long  arcades, 
Gave  warning  with  voice  and  sign. 

But  the  wind  strange  magic  knows, 
To  call  wild  shape  and  tone 
From  the  gray  wood's  tossing  boughs, 
When  Night  is  on  her  throne. 

The  pines  closed  o'er  him  with  deeper  gloom, 
As  he  took  the  path  to  the  monarch's  tomb  : 
The  Pole-star  shone,  and  the  heavens  were  bright 
With  the  arrowy  streams  of  the  Northern  light  ; 
But  his  road  through  dimness  lay  ! 

He  passed,  in  the  heart  of  that  ancient  wood, 
The  dark  shrine  stained  with  the  victim's  blood  ; 
Nor  paused  till  the  rock,  where  a  vaulted  bed 
Had  been  hewn  of  old  for  the  kingly  dead, 
Arose  on  his  midnight  way. 

Then  first  a  moment's  chill 
When  shuddering  through  his  breast, 
And  the  steel-clad  man  stood  still 
Before  that  place  of  rest. 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS.  127 

But  he  crossed  at  length,  with  a  deep-drawn  breath, 
The  threshold-floor  of  the  hall  of  Death, 
And  looked  on  the  pale  mysterious  fire 
Which  gleamed  from  the  urn  of  his  warrior-sire 
With  a  strange  and  solemn  light. 

Then  darkly  the  words  of  the  boding  strain 
Like  an  omen  rose  on  his  soul  again — 
"  Soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep, 
And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep; 
For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might ! " 

But  the  gleaming  sword  and  shield 
Of  many  a  battle-day 
Hung  oer  that  urn,  revealed 
By  the  tomb-fire's  waveless  ray  ; 

With  a  faded  wreath  of  oak-leaves  bound, 
They  hung  o'er  the  dust  of  the  far- renowned, 
Whom  the  bright  Valkyriur's  warning  voice 
Had  called  to  the  banquet  where  gods  rejoice, 
And  the  rich  mead  flows  in  light. 

With  a  beating  heart  his  son  drew  near, 
And  still  rang  the  verse  in  his  thrilling  ear—. 
"  Soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep, 
And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep; 
For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might  1 " 

And  many  a  Saga's  rhyme, 
And  legend  of  the  grave, 
That  shadowy  scene  and  time 
Called  back  to  daunt  the  brave. 

But  he  raised  his  arm — and  the  flame  grew  dim, 
And  the  sword  in  its  light  seemed  to  wave  and  swim, 
And  his  faltering  hand  could  not  grasp  it  well — 
From  the  pale  oak -wreath,  with  a  clash  it  fell 
Through  the  chamber  of  the  dead  ! 

The  deep  tomb  rang  with  the  heavy  sound, 
And  the  urn  lay  shivered  in  fragments  round ; 
And  a  rush,  as  of  tempests,  quenched  the  fire, 
And  the  scattered  dust  of  his  warlike  sire 
Was  strewn  on  the  champion's  head. 

One  moment — and  all  was  still 
In  the  slumberer's  ancient  hall. 
When  the  rock  had  ceased  to  thrill 
With  the  mighty  weapon's  fall. 

The  stars  were  just  fading  one  by  one, 

The  clouds  were  just  tinged  by  the  early  sun, 


128  LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


When  there  streamed  through  the  cavern  a  torch's  flame, 
And  the  brother  of  Sigurd  the  valiant  came 
To  seek  him  in  the  tomb. 

Stretched  on  his  shield,  like  the  steel-girt  slain, 
By  moonlight  seen  on  the  battle-plain, 
In  a  speechless  trance  lay  the  warrior  there  ; 
But  he  wildly  woke  when  the  torch's  glare 
Burst  on  him  through  the  gloom. 

"The  morning  wind  blows  free, 
And  the  hour  of  chase  is  near : 
Come  forth,  come  forth  with  me  I 
What  dost  thou,  Sigurd,  here  ?  " 

*  I  have  put  out  the  holy  sepulchral  fire, 
I  have  scattered  the  dust  of  my  warrior-sire ! 
It  burns  on  my  head,  and  it  weighs  down  my  heart; 
But  the  wind  shall  not  wander  without  their  part 
To  strew  o'er  the  restless  deep  ! 

"  In  the  mantle  of  death  he  was  here  with  me  now — 
There  was  wrath  in  his  eye,  there  was  gloom  on  his  brow  j 
And  his  cold  still  glance  on  my  spirit  fell 
With  an  icy  ray  and  a  withering  spell — 
Oh !  chill  is  the  house  of  sleep ! " 

"  The  morning  wind  blows  free, 
And  the  reddening  sun  shines  clear ; 
Come  forth,  come  forth  with  me  ! 
It  is  dark  and  fearful  here  !  " 

"He  is  there,  he  is  there,  with  his  shadowy  frown  ! 
But  gone  from  his  head  is  the  kingly  crown — 
The  crown  from  his  head,  and  the  spear  from  his  hand— 
They  have  chased  him  far  from  the  glorious  land 
Where  the  feast  of  the  gods  is  spread  ! 

"  He  must  go  forth  alone  on  his  phantom  steed, 
He  must  ride  o'er  the  grave-hills  with  stormy  speedl 
His  place  is  no  longer  at  Odin's  board, 
He  is  driven  from  Valhalla  without  his  sword  ; 
But  the  slayer  shall  avenge  the  dead  !  " 

That  sword  its  fame  had  won 
By  the  fall  of  many  a  crest ; 
But  its  fiercest  work  was  done 
In  the  tomb,  on  Sigurd's  breast  1 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


129 


VALKYRIUR  SONG. 


[The  Valkyriur,  or  Fatal  Sisters  of  Northern  mythology,  were  supposed  to  single  out  th«  war- 
riors who  were  to  die  in  battle,  and  be  received  into  the  halls  of  Odin. 

When  a  northern  chief  fell  gloriously  in  war,  his  obsequies  were  honored  with  all 
possible  magnificence.  His  arms,  gold  and  silver,  war-horse,  domestic  attendants,  and 
whatever  else  he  held  most  dear,  were  placed  with  him  on  the  pile.  His  dependants  and 
friends  frequently  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  die  with  their  leader,  in  order  to  attend  on  his 
shade  in  Valhalla,  or  the  Palace  of  Odin.  And,  lastly,  his  wife  was  generally  consumed 
with  him  on  the  same  pile. — See  MALLET'S  Northern  Antiquities,  HERBERT'S  Helga,  &c.] 

"  Tremblingly  flashed  the  inconstant  meteor-light, 
Showing  thin  forms  like  virgins  of  this  earth  ; 
Save  that  all  signs  of  human  joy  or  grief, 
The  flush  of  passion,  smile,  or  tear,  had  seemed 
On  the  fixed  brightness  of  each  dazzling  cheek 
Strange  and  unnatural." — MII.MAN. 


THE  Sea-king  woke  from  the  troubled 

sleep 

Of  a  vision-haunted  night, 
And  he  looked  from  his  bark  o'er  the 

gloomy  deep, 

And  counted  the  streaks  of  light ; 
For  the  red  sun's  earliest  ray 
Was  to  rouse  his  bands  that  day 
To  the  stormy  joy  of  fight  1 

But  the  dreams  of  rest  were  still  on 

earth, 

And  the  silent  stars  on  high, 
f^nd  there  waved  not  the  smoke  of  one 

cabin  hearth 

'Midst  the  quiet  of  the  sky; 
And  along  the  twilight  bay, 
In  their  sleep  the  hamlets  lay, 
For  they  knew  not  the  Norse  were 
nigh ! 

The  Sea-king  looked  o'er  the  brooding 

wave, 

He  turned  to  the  dusky  shore, 
And  there  seem'd,  through  the  arch  of 

a  tide-worn  cave, 
A  gleam,  as  of  snow,  to  pour; 
And  forth  in  watery  light, 
Moved  phantoms,  dimly  white, 
Which  the  garb  of  woman  bore. 

Slowly  they  moved  to  the  billow -side ; 
And  the  forms,  as  they  grew  more 
clear, 


Seemed  each  on  a  tall  pale  steed  to 

ride, 

And  a  shadowy  crest  to  rear, 
And  to  beckon  with  faint  hand 
From  the  dark  and  rocky  strand, 
And  to  point  a  gleaming  spear. 

Then  a  stillness  on  his  spirit  fell, 

Before  the  unearthly  train, 
For    he    knew    Valhalla's    daughter 

well — 

The  Choosers  of  the  slain  ! 
And  a  sudden  rising  breeze 
Bore,  across  the  moaning  seas, 
To  his  ear  their  thrilling  strain. 

"  There  are  songs  in  Odin's  Hall 
For  the  brave  ere  night  to  fall ! 
Doth  the  great  sun  hide  its  ray  ? 
He  must  bring  a  wrathful  day ! 
Sleeps  the  falchion  in  its  sheath  ? 
Swords  must  do  the  work  of  death! 
Regner  ! — Sea-king  ! — thee  we  call  1 — 
There  is  joy  in  Odin's  Hall. 

"At  the  feast,  and  in  the  song, 
Thou  shalt  be  remembered  long! 
By  the  green  isles  of  the  flood, 
Thou  hast  left  thy  track  in  blood ! 
On  the  earth  and  on  the  sea, 
There  are  those  will  speak  of  thee 
Tis  enough, — the  war-gods  call, — 
There  is  mead  in  Odin's  Hall  J 


130 


THE  CA  VERN  OF  THE  THREE  TELLS. 


"  Regner !  tell  thy  fair-haired  bride 
She  must  slumber  at  thy  side  ! 
Tell  the  brother  of  thy  breast 
Even  for  him  thy  grave  hath  rest ! 
Tell    the    raven    steed     which    bore 

thee, 

When  the  wild  wolf  fled  before  thee 
We  too  with  his  lord  must  fall, — 
There  is  room  in  Odin's  Hall ! 

"  Lo  !  the  mighty  sun  looks  forth — 
Arm  !  thou  leader  of  the  North! 
Lo  !  the  mists  of  twilight  fly — 
We  nmst  vanish,  thou  must  die  1 


By  the  sword  and  by  the  spear, 
By  the  hand  that  knows  no  fear. 
Sea-king  !  nobly  thou  shalt  fall ! — 
There  is  joy  in  Odin's  Hall ! 

There  was  arming  heard  on  land  and 

wave, 

When  afar  the  sunlight  spread, 
And   the   phantom  forms  of  the  tide- 
worn  cave 

With  the  mists  of  morning  fled ; 
But  at  eve,  the  kingly  hand 
Of  the  battle-axe  and  brand 
Lay  cold  on  a  pile  of  dead  ! 


THE  CAVERN  OF  THE  THREE  TELLS. 


A  SWISS  TRADITION. 

[The  three  founders  of  the  Helvetic  Confederacy  are  thought  to  sleep  in  a  cavern  near  the 
Lake  of  Lucerne.  The  herdsmen  call  them  the  Three  Tells  ;  and  say  that  they  lie  there  in 
their  antique  garb,  in  quiet  slumber;  and  when  Switzerland  is  in  her  utmost  need,  they  will 
awaken  and  regain  the  liberties  of  the  land. — See  Quarterly  Review,  No.  44. 

The  Griitli,  where  the  confederates  held  their  nightly  meetings,  is  a  meadow  on   the 
shore  of  the  Lake  of  Lucerne,  or  Lake  of  the  Forest  Cantons,  here  called  the  Forest-Sea-] 

OH  !  enter  not  yon  shadowy  cave, 
Seed  not  the  bright  spars  there, 
Though  the  whispering  pines  that  o'er  it  wave 
With  freshness  fill  the  air : 

For  there  the  Patriot  Three, 
In  the  garb  of  old  arrayed, 
By  their  native  Forest-Sea 
On  a  rocky  couch  are  laid. 

The  Patriot  Three  that  met  of  yore 

Beneath  the  midnight  sky, 
And  leagued  their  hearts  on  the  Griitli  shore 
In  the  name  of  liberty  ! 

Now  silently  they  sleep 

Amidst  the  hills  they  freed ; 
But  their  rest  is  only  deep 
Till  their  country's  hour  of  need. 

They  start  not  at  the  hunter's  call, 

Nor  the  Lammer-geyer's  cry, 
Kor  the  rush  of  a  sudden  torrent's  fall, 
Nor  the  Lauwine  thundering  by; 
And  the  Alpine  herdsman's  lay, 
To  a  Switzer's  heart  so  dear ! 
On  the  wild  wind  floats  away, 
No  more  for  them  to  hear. 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


But  when  the  battle-horn  is  blown 

Till  the  Schreckhorn's  peaks  reply, 
When  the  Jungfrau's  cliffs  send  back  the  tont 
Through  their  eagles'  lonely  sky  ; 

When  the  spear-heads  light  the  lakes, 

When  trumpets  loose  the  snows, 
When  the  rushing  war-steed  shakes 
The  glacier's  mute  repose, 

When  Uri's  beechen  woods  wave  red 

In  the  burning  hamlet's  light  — 
Then  from  the  cavern  of  the  dead 
Shall  the  sleepers  wake  in  might  ! 

With  a  leap,  like  Tell's  proud  leap 

When  away  the  helm  he  flung, 
And  boldly  up  the  steep 

From  the  flashing  billow  sprung  !  * 

They  shall  wake   beside    their  Forest-Sea, 

In  the  ancient  garb  they  wore 
When  they  linked  the  hands  that  made  us  free. 
On  the  Griitli's  moonlight  shore  ; 

And  their  voices  shall  be  heard, 

And  be  answered  with  a  shout, 

Till  the  echoing  Alps  are  stirred, 

And  the  signal-fires  blaze  out. 

And  the  land  shall  see  such  deeds  again 

As  those  of  that  proud  day 
When  Winkelried,  on  Sempach's  plain, 
Through  the  serried  spears  made  way  ; 
And  when  the  rocks  came  down 

On  the  dark  Morgarten  dell, 
And  the  crowned  casques,2  o'erthrown, 
Before  our  father's  fell  I 

For  the  Kiihreihen's  3  notes  must  never  sound 

In  a  land  that  wears  the  chain, 
And  the  vines  on  freedom's  holy  ground 
Untrampled  must  remain  ; 

And  the  yellow  harvests  wave 

For  no  stranger's  hand  to  reap, 
While  within  their  silent  cave 
The  men  of  Griitli  sleep  I 


1  The  point  of  rnck  on  which  Tell  leaped  from  the  boat  of  Gessler  is  marked  by  a  chapel,  and 
railed  the  Tettensprmig. 

3  Crowned  Helmets,  as  a  distinction  of  rank,  are  mentioned  in  Simond's  Switzerland. 
*  The  Kiihreihen— the  celebrated  Raw  des  Vaches, 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


SWISS  SONG. 

ON  THE  ANNIVERSARY   OF  AN  ANCIENT   BATTLB. 

The  Swiss,  even  to  our  days,  have  continued  to  celebrate  the  anniversaries  of  their  ancient 
battles  with  much  solemnity  ;  assembling  in  the  open  air  on  the  fields  where  their  ancestors 
fought,  to  hear  thanksgivings  offered  up  by  the  priests,  and  the  names  of  all  who  shaivci  it 
the  glory  of  the  day  enumerated.  They  afterwards  walk  in  procession  to  chape. s,  .i.w.iyi 
erected  in  the  vicinity  of  such  scenes,  where  masses  are  sung  for  the  souls  of  the  depaiteu. 
See  PLANTA'S  History  of  the  Helvetic  Confederacy.} 


LOOK  on  the  white  Alps  round  ! 

If  yet  they  gird  a  land 
Where  Freedom's  voice  and  step  are 
found, 

Forget  ye  not  the  band, — 
The  faithful  band,  our  sires,  who  fell 
Here  in  the  narrow  battle-dell  1 

If  yet,  the  wilds  among, 

Our  silent  hearts  may  burn, 
When  the  deep  mountain-horn  hath 

rung, 

And  home  our  steps  may  turn, — 
Home  ! — home  ! — if  still  that  name  be 

dear, 
Praise  to  the  men  who  perished  here ! 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round  ! 

Up  to  their  shining  snows 
That  day  the  stormy  rolling  sound, 

The  sound  of  battle  rose  ! 
Their  caves  prolonged  the  trumpet's 

blast, 
Their  dark  pines  trembled  as  it  passed! 

They  saw  the  princely  crest, 

They  saw  the  knightly  spear, 
The  banner  and  the  mail-clad  breast, 

Borne  down,  and  trampled  here  ! 
They  saw — and  glorying    there    they 

stand, 
Eternal  records  to  the  land  I 


Praise  to  the  mountain-born, 
The  brethren  of  the  glen  ! 
By  them  no  steel  array  was  worn, 

They  stood  as  peasant-men ! 
They  left  the  vineyard  and  the  field, 
To  break  an  empire's  lance  and  shield ! 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round  ! 

If  yet,  along  their  steeps, 
Our    children's    fearless    feet    may 

bound, 

Free  as  the  chamois  leaps  : 
Teach  them  in  song  to  bless  the  band 
Amidst  whose  mossy  graves  we  stand ! 

If,  by  the  wood-fire's  blaze, 

When  winter  stars  gleam  cold, 
The  glorious  tales  of  elder  days 

May  proudly  yet  be  told, 
Forget  not  then  the  shepherd  race, 
Who  made  the  earth  a  holy  place  I 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round  ! 

If  yet  the  Sabbeth-bell 
Comes  o'er  them  with  a  gladdening 

sound, 

Think  on  the  battle-dell  ! 
For  blood  first  bathed  its  flowery  sod, 
That  chainless  hearts  might  worship 
God! 


THE  MESSENGER  BIRD. 

«ome  of  the  native  Brazilians  pay  great  veneration  to  a  certain  bird  that  sings  mournfully  ir; 
the  night-time.  They  say  it  is  a  messenger  which  their  deceased  friends  and  relations  hav- 
sent,  and  that  it  brings  them  news  from  the  other  world.— See  PICART'S  Ceremonies  <tna 
Religious  Customs.} 

THOU  art  come  from  the  spirits'  land,  thou  bird ! 

Thou  art  come  from  the  spirit's  land  : 
Through  the  dark  pine  grove  let  thy  voice  be  heard* 

And  tell  of  the  shadowy  band  I 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LAXDS.  133 

We  know  that  the  bowers  are  green  and  fair 

In  the  light  of  that  summer  shore  ; 
Ami  \ve  know  that  the  friends  we  have  lost  are  there, 

They  are  there — and  they  weep  no  more  ! 

And  we  know  they  have  quenched  their  fever's  thirst 

From  the  fountain  of  youth  ere  now,1 
For  there  must  the  stream  in  its  freshness  burst 

Which  none  may  find  below! 

And  we  know  that  they  will  not  be  lured  to  earth 

From  the  land  of  deathless  flowers, 
By  the  feast,  or  the  dance,  or  the  song  of  mirth, 

Though  their  hearts  were  once  with  ours: 

Though  they  sat  with  us  by  the  night-fire's  blaze, 

And  bent  with  us  the  bow, 
And  heard  the  tales  of  our  fathers'  days, 

Which  are  told  to  others  now  I 

But  tell  us,  thou  bird  of  the  solemn  strain  ! 

Can  those  who  have  loved  forget  ? 
We  call — and  they  answer  not  again  : 

Do  they  love — do  they  love  us  yet  ? 

Doth  the  warrior  think  of  his  brother  there, 

And  the  father  of  his  child  ? 
And  the  chief  of  those  that  were  wont  to  share 

His  wandering  through  the  wild? 

We  call  them  far  through  the  silent  night, 

And  they  speak  not  from  cave  or  hill ; 
We  know,  thou  bird  !  that  their  land  is  bright, 

But  say,  do  they  love  there  still  ?  2 

1  An   expedition  was  actually  undertaken  Vy  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon,  in  the   sixteenth  century, 
with  a  view  of  discovering  a  wonderful  fountain,  believed  by  the  natives  of  Puerto  Rico  to  spring 
in  <.ne  of  the  Lucayo  Isles,  and  to  possess  the  virtue  of  restoring  youth  to  all  who  bathed  in  i« 
. — See  ROBERTSON'S  History  of  America. 

ANSWER  TO  "THE   MESSENGER   BIRD." 

BV   AN    AMERICAN  QUAKER    LADY. 

YES  !   I  came  from  the  spirits'  land, 

From  the  land  that  is  bright  and  fair ; 
1  came  with  a  voice  from  the  shadowy  band, 

To  tell  that  they  love  you  there. 

To  say,  if  a  wish  or  a  vain  regret 

Could  live  in  Elysian  bowers, 
'Twould  be  for  the  friends  they  can  ne'er  forget, 

The  beloved  of  their  youthful  hours. 

To  whisper  the  dear  deserted  band, 

Who  smiled  on  their  tarriance  here, 
That  a  faithful  guard  in  the  dreamless  land 

Are  the  friends  they  li  :ve  loved  so  dew. 


t34  LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 

THE  STRANGER  IN  LOUISIANA. 

•  An  early  traveller  mentions  people  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi  who  burst  into  tears  at  the 
sight  of  a  stranger.  The  reason  of  this  is,  that  they  fancy  their  deceased  friends  and  rela- 
tions to  be  only  gone  on  a  journey,  and,  being  in  constant  expectation  of  their  return,  look 
for  them  vainly  amongst  these  foreign  travellers. — PICART'S  Ceremonies  an,l  Religious 
Customs. 

u  J'ai  passe  moi-meme,"  says  Chateaubriand  in  his  Souvenirs  (TAmcrique,  "chez  une 
peuplade  Indienne  qui  se  prenait  a  pleurer  a  la  vue  d'un  voyageur,  pnrce  qu'il  lui  rappelail 
lies  amis  partis  Dour  la  Contre'e  des  Ames,  et  depuis  long-temps  en  voyage"\ 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger !  and  wept. 
WE  looked  for  the  youth  of  the  sunny  glance 
Whose  step  was  the  fleetest  in  chase  or  dance : 
The  light  of  his  was  a  joy  to  see, 
The  path  of  his  arrows  a  storm  to  flee. 
But  there  came  a  voice  from  a  distant  shore — 
He  was  called — he  is  found  midst  his  tribe  no  more  : 
He  is  not  in  his  place  when  the  night-fires  burn, 
But  we  look  for  him  still — he  will  yet  return  ! 
His  brother  sat  with  a  drooping  brow 
In  the  gloom  of  the  shadowing  cypress  bough : 
We  roused  him — we  bade  him  no  longer  pine, 
For  we  heard  a  step — but  the  step  was  thine  ! 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger !  and  wept. 
We  looked  for  the  maid  of  the  mournful  song— 
Mournful,  though  sweet, — she  hath  left  us  long : 
We  told  her  the  youth  of  her  love  was  gone, 
And  she  went  forth  to  seek  him — she  passed  alone. 
We  hear  not  her  voice  when  the  woods  are  still, 
From  the  bower  where  it  sang,  like  a  silvery  rill. 
The  joy  of  her  sire  with  her  smile  is  fled, 
The  winter  is  white  on  his  lonely  head  • 
He  hath  none  by  his  side  when  the  wilds  we  track, 
He  hath  none  when  we  rest — yet  she  comes  not  back! 
We  looked  for  her  eye  on  the  feast  to  shine, 
For  her  breezy  step— but  the  step  was  thine  ! 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger  !  and  wept. 
We  looked  for  the  chief,  who  hath  left  the  spear 
And  the  bow  of  his  battles  forgotten  here  : 
We  looked  for  the  hunter,  whose  bride's  lament 
On  the  wind  of  the  forest  at  eve  is  sent : 

Tis  true,  in  the  silent  night  you  call, 

And  they  answer  you  not  again  ; 
But  the  spirits  of  bliss  are  voiceless  all — 

Sound  only  was  made  for  pain. 
That  their  land  is  bright  and  they  weep  no  more, 

I  have  warbled  from  hill  to  hill ; 
But  my  plaintive  strain  should  have  told  before. 

That  they  love,  oh !  they  love  you  still. 
They  bid  me  say  that  unfading  flowers 

You'll  find  in  the  path  they  trode  ; 
•   And  a  welcome  true  to  their  deathless  bowers. 

Pronounced  by  the  voice  of  God. 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


We  looked  for  the  first-born,  whose  mother's  cry 
Sounds  wild  and  shrill  through  the  midnight  sky ! — 
Where  are  they  ?     Thou'rt  seeking  some  distant  coast 
Oh  ask  of  them,  stranger  ! — send  back  the  lost ! 
Tell  them  we  mourn  by  the  dark-blue  streams, 
Tell  them  our  lives  but  of  them  are  dreams ! 
Tell,  how  we  sat  in  the  gloom  to  pine, 
And  to  watch  for  a  step — but  the  step  was  thine ! 


THE  ISLE  OF  FOUNTS. 


AN   INDIAN  TRADITION. 

t"  The  river  St.  Mary  has  its  source  from  a  vast  lake  or  marsh,  which  lies  between  Flint  and 
Oakmulge  rivers,  and  occupies  a  spa  e  of  near  three  hundred  miles  in  circuit.  This  vast  ac- 
cumulation of  waters,  in  the  wet  season,  appears  as  a  lake,  and  contains  some  large  islands  or 
knolls  of  rich  high  land  ;  one  of  which  the  present  generation  of  tVe  Creek  Indians  represent 
to  be  a  most  blissful  spot  of  earth.  They  say  it  is  inhabited  by  a  peculiar  race  of  Indians, 
whose  women  are  incomparably  beautiful.  They  also  tell  you  that  this  terrestrial  paradise 
has  been  sten  by  some  of  their  enterprising  hunters,  when  in  pursuit  of  game  ;  but  that  in 
their  endeavors  to  approach  it,  they  were  involved  in  perpetual  labyrinths,  and,  like  enchanted 
land,  still  (as  they  imagined  they  had  just  gained  it,  it  seemed  to  fly  before  them,  alternately 
appeal  ing  and  disappearing.  They  resolved  at  length  to  leave  the  delusive  pursuit,  and  to 
return  ;  which,  after  a  number  of  difficulties,  they  effected.  When  they  reported  their  ad- 
ventures to  their  countrymen,  the  young  warriors  were  inflamed  with  an  irresistible  desire  to 
invade  and  make  a  conquest  of  so  charming  a  country  ;  but  all  their  attempts  have  hitherto 
proved  abortive,  never  having  been  able  again  to  find  that  enchanting  spot." — BERTRAM'S 
Travels  through  North  and  South  Carolina. 

The  additional  circumstances  in  the  "  Isle  of  Founts  K  are  merely  imaginary.] 


SON  of  the  stranger !  wouldst  thou 

take 

O'er  yon  blue  hills  thy  lonely  way, 
To  reach  the  still  and  shining  lake 
Along  whose  banks  the  west  winds 

play  ? 

Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile — 
Oh  1  seek  thou  not  the  Fountain  Isle ! 

Lull  but  the  mighty  serpent-king,1 

Midst    the    gray    rocks,   his    old 

domain ;  [spring — 

Ward     but     the     cougar's     deadly 

Thy  step  that  lake's  green  shore 

may  gain  ; 
And  the  bright  Isle,  when  all  is  passed, 


Yes !    there,   with    all    its  rainbow 

streams, 

Clear  as  within  thine  arrow's  flight, 
The  Isle  of  Founts,  the  isle  of  dreams, 
Floats  on  the  wave  in  golden  light : 
And  lovely  will  the  shadows  be 
Of  groves  whose  fruit  is  not  for  thee ! 


And   breathings    from    their   sunny 

flowers, 
Which  are  not  of  the  things  that 

die, 

And  singing  voices  from  their  bowors 
Shall  greet  thee  in  the  purple  sky; 
Soft  voices,  e'en  like  those  that  dwell 


Shall  vainly  meet  thine  eye  at  last !        I  Far  in  the  green  reed's  hollow  cell. 


1  The  Cherokees  believe  that  the  recesses  of  their  mountains,  overgrown  with  lofty  pines  and 
cedars,  and  covered  with  old  mossy  rocks,  are  inhabited  by  the  kings  or  chiefs  of  latllesn.ikes, 
whom  they  denominate  the  "bright  old  inhabitants."  They  represent  them  as  snakes  of  an 
i-noimous  size,  and  which  possess  the  power  of  drawing  to  them  every  living  creature  that  comes 
within  tlie  reach  of  their  eyes.  Their  heads  are  said  to  be  downed  wiili  a  carbuncle  of  daiuliug 
brightness  — See  Notes  to  L^YUEN'S  Scfttei  oj  Infancy. 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


Or  hast  thou  heard  the  sounds  that 

rise 
From  the  deep  chambers  of  the 

earth  ? 

The  wild  and  wondrous  melodies 
To  which  the  ancient  rocks  gave 

birth  ?  ' 

Like  that  sweet  song  of  hidden   caves 
Shall  swell  those  wood-notes  o'er  the 


The  emerald  waves  ! — they  take  their 

hue  [shore ; 

And    image   from  that  sunbright 

But  wouldst  thou  launch  thy  light 

canoe, 

And   wouldst  thou  ply  thy  rapid 
oar. —  [speed, 

Before    thee,    hadst    thou    morning's 
The  dreamy  land  should  still  recede  1 

Yet  on  the  breeze  thou  still  wouldst 

hear 

The  music  of  its  flowering  shades, 
And  ever  should  the  sound  be  near 
Of  founts  that  ripple  through  its 

glades ; 

The  sound,  and  sight,  and  flashing  ray 
Of  joyous  waters  in  their  play  1 

But  woe  to  him  that  sees  them  burst 
With  their  bright  spray-showers  to 

the  lake ! 
Earth  has  no  spring  to  quench  the 

thirst 
That  semblance  in  his  soul  shall 

wake, 

Forever  pouring  through  his  dreams 
The  gush  of  those  untasted  streams  ! 


Bright,  bright  in  many  a  rocky  urn. 

The  waters  of  our  deserts  lie, 
Yet  at  their  source  his  lips  shall  burn, 

Parched  with  the  fever's  agony ! 
From  the  blue  mountains  to  the  main 
Our  thousand  floods  may  roll  in  vain. 

E'en  thus  our  hunters  came  of  yore 

Back  from  their  long  and  weary 

quest ; —  [shore  ? 

Had   they  not  seen  the   untrodden 

And  could  they  midst  our  wilds 

find  rest  ? 

The  lightning  of  their  glance  was  fled, 
They  dwelt  amongst  us  as  the  dead ! 

They  lay  beside  our  glittering  rills 
With    visions  in  their  darkened 

eye; 
Their  joy  was  not  amidst  the  hills 

Where  elk  and  deer  before  us  fly 
Their  spears  upon  the  cedar  hung, 
Their  javelins  to  the  wind  were  flung. 

They  bent  no  more  the  forest  bow. 
They  armed  not  with  the  warrior 
band,  slow — 

The  moons  waned  o'er  them  dim  and 
They  left  us  for  the  spirits'  land  ! 
Beneath  our  pines  yon  greenward  heap 
Shows  where  the  restless  found  their 

sleep. 
Son  of  the  stranger  !  if  at  eve 

Silence  be  'midst  us  in  thy  place, 
Yet  go  not  where  the  mighty  leave 
The    strength  of    battle    and    ox 

chase ! 

Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile — 
Oh  !  seek  thou  not  the  Fountain  Isle  1 


THE   BENDED  BOW. 

{It  is  supposed  that  war  was  anciently  proclaimed  in  Britain  by  sending  messengers  in  different 
directions  through  the  land,  each  bearing  a  bended  bow  ',  and  that  peace  was  in  like  mannei 
announced  by  a  bow  unstrung,  and  therefore  straight. — See  the  Cambrian  Antiquities. 


THERE  was  heard  the  sound  of  a  com- 
ing foe, 

There  was  sent  through  Britain  a 
bended  bow ; 


And  a  voice  was  poured  on  the  free 

winds  far, 
As  the  land  rose  up  at  the  sign  of  war 


1  The  stones  on  the  banks  of  the  Oronoco,  called  by  the  South  American  missionaries  Laxat 
dfc  Afusica,  and  alluded  to  in  a  former  note. 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


.  learcl  yon  not  the  battle-horn? — 
Reaper  !   leave  thy  golden  corn  : 
Leave  it  for  the  birds  of  heaven — 
S  winds  must  Hash  and  spears  be 

riven  ! 

Leave  it  for  the  winds  to  shed — 
Arm  !  ere  Britain's  turf  grow  red." 

And  the  reaper  armed,  like  a  freeman's 

son ; 
And    the   bended   bow   and  the  voice 

passed  on. 

"  Hunter  !    leave    the    mountain- 
chase, 

Take  the  falchion  from  its  place  ; 
Let  the  wolf  go  free  to-day, 
Leave  him  for  a  nobler  prey ; 
Let  the  deer  uncalled  sweep  by — 
Any  thee  !  Britain's  foes  are  nigh  !" 

And  the  hunter  armed  ere  the  chase 

was  done  ; 
And   the  bended  bow  and  the  voice 

passed  on. 

"  Chieftain  !  quit  the  joyous  feast — 
Stay  not  till  the  song  hath  ceased  : 
Though  the  mead  be  foaming 

bright. 
Though  the  fires  give  ruddy  light, 


Leave  the  hearth,  and  leave  the 

hall- 
Arm  thee!  Britain's  foes  must  fall." 

And  the  chieftain  armed,  and  the  horn 

was  blown  ; 
And  the  bended  bow   and  the  voice 

passed  on. 

"  Prince  !    thy  father's  deeds  arc 

told 

In  the  bower  and  in  the  hold, 
Where  the  gotherd's  lay  is  sung, 
Where    the     minstrel's     harp    is 

strung ! 

Foes  are  on  thy  native  sea — 
Give  our  bards  a  tale  of  thee !  " 

And   the   prince   came   armed,  like  a 

leader's  son ; 
And   the  bended   bow   and  the  voice 

passed  on. 

"  Mother  !  stay  thou  not  thy  boy, 
He  must  learn  the  battle's  joy: 
Sister  !  bring  the  sword  and  spear 
Give  thy  brother  words  of  cheer: 
Maiden  !  bid  thy  lover  part:  2 
Britain  calls  the  strong  in   heart !' 

And  the  bended    bow   and  the  voico 

passed  on, 

And  the  bards  made  song  for  a  battl 
on. 


HE  NEVER  SMILED  AGAIN. 


[It  is  records!  of  Henry  '.hi  First,  that  after  the  death  of  his  son,  Prince  William,  who  perished 
in  a  shipwreck  off  the  coast  of  Normandy,  he  was  never  seen  to  smile.] 


THE  bark  that  held  a  prince  went  down, 

The  sweep-ng  waves  rolled  on  ; 
And  what  was  England's  glorious  crown 

To  him  that  wept  a  son  ? 
lie  lived — for  life  may  long  be  borne 

Ere  sorrow  break  its  chain ; 
Why  comes  not  death   to  those  who 
mourn  ? 

1  Ie  never  smiled  again  J 


Tbrre  str^d  proud  forms  around  his 
throne, 

The  stately  and  the  brave ; 
But  which  could  fill  the  place  of  one, 

That  one  bencnth  the  wave  ? 
Before  him  passed  the  young  and  fair, 

In  pleasure's  reckless  train  ; 
But  seas  dashed  o'er  his  pon's  brighi 
hair — 

He  never  smiled  again  ! 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


He  sat  where  festal  bowls  went  round, 

He  heard  the  minstrel  sing, 
He  saw  the  tourney's  victor  crowned 

Amidst  the  knightly  ring  : 
A  murmur  of  the  restless  deep 

Was  blent  with  every  strain, 
\  voice  of  winds  that  would  not  sleep — 

He  never  smiled  again ! 


Hearts,  in  that  time.closed  o'er  the  trace 

Of  vows  once  fondly  poured, 
And  strangers  took  the  kinsman's  place 

At  many  a  joyous  board  ; 
Graves,    which    true  love  had  bathed 
with  tears, 

Were  left  to  heaven's  bright  rain, 
Fresh  hopes  were  born  for  other  year»— • 

He  never  smiled  again  1 


CCEUR-DE-LION  AT  THE  BIER  OF  HIS  FATHER. 

fThe  body  of  Henry  the  Second  lay  in  state  in  the  abbey-church  of  Fontevraud,  where  it  wae 
visited  by  Richard  Cnetr-de-Lion,  who  on  beholding  it,  was  struck  with  horror  and  remorse, 
and  bitterly  reproached  himself  for  that  rebellious  conduct  which  had  been  the  means  of  bring- 
ing his  father  to  an  untimely  grave.] 


TORCHES  were  blazing  clear, 

Hymns  pealing  deep  and  slow, 
Where  a  king  lay  stately  on  his  bier 

In  the  church  of  Fontevraud. 
-Banners  of  battle  o'er  him  hung, 

And  warriors  slept  beneath; 
And  light,  as   noon's  broad  light,  was 
flung 

On  the  settled  face  of  death. 

On  the  settled  face  of  death 

A  strong  and  ruddy  glare, 
Though  dimmed  at  times  by  the  censer's 
breath, 

Yet  it  fell  still  brightest  there  : 
As  if  each  deeply  furrowed  trace 

Of  earthly  years  to  show. 
Mas  !  that  sceptred  mortal's  race 

Had  surely  closed  in  woe  1 

The  marble  floor  was  swept 
By  many  a  long  dark  stole, 
As  the  kneeling  priests  round  him  that 

slept 

Sang  mass  for  the  parted  soul : 
And    solemn    were    the    strains   they 

poured 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
With  the  cross  above,  and  the  crown 

and  sword, 
And  the  silent  king  in  sight. 

There  was  heard  a  heavy  clang, 
As  of  steel-girt  men  the  tread, 


And  the  tombs  and  the  hollow  pave- 
ment rang 

With  a  sounding  thrill  of  dread  ; 
And  the  holy  chant  was  hushed  awhilp, 

As,  by  the  torch's  flame, 
A  gleam  of  arms  up  the  sweeping  aisli 

With  a  mail-clad  leader  came. 

He  came  with  haughty  look, 

An  eagle-glance  and  clear  , 
But  his  proud  heart  through  its  breast- 
plate shook 

When  he  stood  beside  the  bier  ! 
He  stood   there   still  with  a  drooping 
brow, 

And  clasped  hands  o'er  it  raised  ; 
For  his  father  lay  before  him  low — 

It  was  Coeur-de-Lion  gazed  ! 

And  silently  he  strove 

With  the  workings  of  his  breast  ; 
But  there's  more  in  late  repentant  love 

Than  steel  may  keep  suppressed  ! 
And  his  tears  brake  forth,  at  last,  like 
rain, — 

Men  held  their  breath  in  awe  ; 
For  his  face  was  seen  by  his   warrioi 
train, 

And  he  recked  not  that  they  saw. 

He  looked  upon  the  dead — 

And  sorrow  seemed  to  lie, 
A  weight  of  sorrow,  even  like  lead, 

Pale  on  the  fast-shut  eye. 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


He   stooped  —  and  kissed  the   frozen 
cheek, 

And  the  heavy  hand  of  clay  ; 
Till  bursting  words — yet  all  too  weak — 

Gave  his  soul's  passion  way. 

"  O  father  !  is  it  vain, 

This  late  remorse  and  deep  ? 
Speak  to  me,  father !    once  again  : 

I  weep — behold,  I  weep  I 
Alas  !  my  guilty  pride  and  ire  ! — 

Were  but  this  work  undone, 
I  would  give  England's  crown,  my  sire  ! 

To  hear  thee  bless  thy  son. 

"  Speak  to  me  !  Mighty  grief 

Ere  now  the  dust  hath  stirred  ! 
Hear  me,  but  hear  me  ! — father,  chief, 

My  king  !  I  must  be  heard  ! 
Hushed,  hushed — how  is  it  that  I  call 

And  that  thou  answerest  ^ot  ? 
When  was  it  thus  ? — Woe,  woe  for  all 

The  love  my  soul  forgot  1 

"  Thy  silver  hairs  I  see, 
So  still,  so  sadly  bright ! 


And  father,  father  !  but  for  me, 
They  had  not  been  so  white  ! 

/bore  thee  clown,  high  heart !  at  last : 
No  longer  couldst  thou  strive. 

Oh  !  for  one  moment  of  the  past. 
To  kneel  and  say — '  forgive  ! ' 

"  Thou  wert  the  noblest  king 

On  royal  throne  e'er  seen ; 
And  thou  didst  wear  in  knightly  ring1, 

Of  all,  the  stateliest  mien ; 
And  thou  didst  prove,  where  spears  art 
proved, 

In  war,  the  bravest  heart: 
Oh!  ever  the  renowned  and  loved 

Thou  wert — and  there  thou  art  I 

"  Thou  that  my  boyhood's  guide 

Didst  take  fond  joy  to  be ! — 
The  times  I've  sported  at  thy  side, 

And  climbed  thy  parent  knee  I 
And  there  before  the  blessed  shrine, 

My  sire  !  I  see  tbee  lie, — 
How  will  that  sad  stiil  face  of  thine 

Look  on  me  till  I  die  !  " 


THE  VASSAL'S  LAMENT  FOR  THE  FALLEN  TREE. 

,"  Here  (at  Brereton,  in  Cheshire)  is  one  thing  incredibly  strange,  but  attested,  as  I  myself  have 
heard,  by  many  persons,  and  commonly  believed.  Before  any  heir  of  this  family  dies,  there 
are  seen,  ra  a  lake  adjoining,  the  bodies  of  trees  swimming  on  the  water  for  several  days-— 
CAMDEN'S  Britannia..} 


YES  !  I  have  seen  the  ancient  oak 

On  the  dark  deep  water  cast, 
And  it  was  not  felled  by  the  wood- 
man's stroke, 

Or  the  rush  of  the  sweeping  blast; 
For  the  axe  might   never  touch  that 

tree, 
And  the  air  was  still  as  a  summer  sea. 


I  saw  it  fall,  as  falls  a  chief 
By  an  arrow  in  the  fight, 
And  the  old  woods  shook   to   their 

loftiest  leaf, 

At  the  crashing  of  its  might ; 
And  the  startled  deer  to  their  coverts 

drew,  [flew  !  j  But  on  his  brow  the  mark  is  set — 

And  the  spray  of  the  lake  as  a  fountain's   Oh  !  could  my  life  redeem  him  yet ! 


'Tis   fallen !     But  think  thou  not  I 

weep 

For  the  forest's  pride  o'ert hr<  >\vn — 
An  old  man's  tears  lie  far  too  deep 

To  be  poured  for  this  alone  ; 
But  by  that  sign  too  well  I  know, 
That    a  youthful  head,  must  soon  be 
low ! 


A  youthful  head,  with  its  shining  hair. 

And  its  bright  quick-flashing  eye- 
Well  may  I  weep !  for  the  boy  is 
fair, 

Too  fair  a  thing  to  die  ! 


£40 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LAXDS. 


He  bounded  by  me  as  I  gazed 

Alone  on  the  fatal  sign, 
And  it  seemed  like  sunshine  when 

he  raised 

His  joyous  glance  to  mine. 
With  a  stag's  fleet  step  he  bounded  by, 
£o  full  of  life — but  he  must  die  1 

He  must,  he  must !  in  that  deep  dell 

By  that  dark  water's  side, 
'Tis  known  that  ne'er  a  proud  tree 

fell 

But  an  heir  of  his  fathers'  died. 
And  he— there's  laughter  in  his  eye, 
Joy  in  his  voice — yet  he  must  die ! 

I've  borne  him  in  these  arms,  that 
now 

Are  nerveless  and  unstrung  ; 
And  must  I  see,  on  that  fair  brow. 

The  dust  untimely  flung  ? 


I  must ! —  yon   green  oak,  branch  and 

crest, 
Lies  floating  on  the  dark  lake's  breast  I 

The  noble  boy ! — how  proudly  sprung 

The  falcon  from  his  hand ! 
It  seemed  like  youth    to  see   him 

young, 

A  flower  in  his  father's  land  ! 
But  the  hour  of  the  knell  and  the  dirge 

is,  nigh 

For  the  tree  had  fallen,  and  the  flower 
must  die. 

Say  not  'tis  vain  !     I  tell  thee,  some 

Are  warned  by  a  meteor's  light, 
Or  a  pale  bird,  flitting,  calls  them 

home, 

Or  a  voice  on  the  winds  by  night; 
And  they  must  go  !  And  he  too,  he  ! — 
Woe  for  the  fall  of  the  glorious  Tree  I 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN. 


fit  is  a  popular  belief  in  the  Odenwald,  that  the  passing  of  the  Wild  Huntsman  announces  tha 
approach  of  war.  He  is  supposed  to  issue  with  his  train  from  the  ruined  castle  of  Rodensteio, 
and  traverse  the  air  to  the  opposite  castle  of  Schnellerts.  It  is  confidently  asserted,  that  the 
sound  of  his  phantom  horses  and  hounds  was  heard  by  the  Duke  of  Baden  before  the  com- 
mencement of  the  second  war  hi  Germany.] 


THY  rest  was  deep  at  the  slumberer's 

hour, 

If  thou  didst  not  hear  the  blast 
Of  the  savage  horn  from  the  mountain- 
tower, 

As  the  Wild  Night-Huntsman  passed, 
And  the  roar  of  the  stormy  chase  went 

by 
Through  the  dark  unquiet  sky  I 

The  stag  sprung  up  from  his  mossy  bed 

When  he  caught  the  piercing  sounds, 

And   the    oak-boughs    crashed   to   his 

antlered  head, 

As  he  flew  from  the  viewless  hounds  ; 
And  the  falcon  soared  from  her  craggy 

height, 

Away  through  the  rushing  night  I 
The  banner  shook  on  its  ancient  hold, 


And  the  pine  in  its  desert  place, 
As  the  cloud  and  tempest  onward  rolled 

With  the  din  of  the  trampling  race  ; 
And  the  glens   were   filled    with    the 

laugh  and  shout, 
And  the  bugle,  ringing  out ! 

From  the  chieftain's  hand  the  wine-cup 

fell, 

At  the  castle's  festive  board, 
And  a  sudden   pause   came   o'er   the 

swell 

Of  the  harp's  triumphant  chord  ; 
And  the  Minnesinger's  '  thrilling  lay 
In  the  hall  died  fast  away. 

'Minnesinger,  love-singer  —  the  wandering 
minstrels  of  Germany  were  so  called  in  the  mid* 
die  ages. 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


141 


The  convent's  chanted  rite  was  stayed, 

And  the  hermit  dropped  his  beads, 
And  a  trembling  ran  through  the  forest- 
shade, 

At  the  neigh  of  the  phantom  steeds, 
And  the    church-bells   pealed    to    the 

rocking  blast 
As  the  Wild  Night-Huntsman  passed. 

The  storm  hath  swept  with  the  chase 

away, 

There  is  stillness  in  the  sky  ; 
tfut  the  mother  looks  on  her  son  to-day 

With  a  troubled  heart  and  eye, 
And  the  maiden's  brow  hath  a  shade  of 

care 
Midst  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair  ! 

The  Rhine  flows  bright ;  but  its  waves 

ere  long 

Must  hrir  a  voice  of  war, 
And  the  clash  of  spears  our  hills  among, 

And  a  trumpet  from  afar; 
And  the  brave  on  a  bloody  turf  must 

lie — 
For  the  Huntsman  hath  gone  by! 


BRANDENBURG    HARVEST 
SONG.1 

FROM    THE     GERMAN    OF     LA     MOTTE 
FOUQUE. 

THE  corn  in  golden  light 
Waves  o'er  the  plain ; 

The  sickle's  gleam  is  bright ; 
Full  swells  the  grain. 

Now  send  we  far  around 

Our  harvest  lay ! — 
Alas  !  a  heavier  sound 

Comes  o'er  the  day  ! 

Earth  shrouds  with  burial  sod 

Her  soft  eyes  blue, — 
Now  o'er  the  gifts  of  God 

Fall  tears  like  dew ! 


1  For  the  year  of  the  Queen  of  Prussia's 
death. 


On  every  breeze  a  knell 

The  hamlets  pour : 
We  know  its  cause  too  well — 
She  is  no  more  ! 


THE  SHADE  OF  THESEUS 

AN  ANCIENT  GREEK  TRADITION. 

KNOW  ye  not  when  our  dead 

From  sleep  to  battle  sprung  ? — 
When  the  Persian  charger's  tread 

On  their  covering  greensward  rung ; 
When  the  trampling  march  of  foes 

Had  crushed  our  vines  and  flowers, 
When  jewelled  crests  arose 

Through  the  holy  laurel  bowers; 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze, 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone, 

When  masts  were  on  the  seas, 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 

There  was  one,  a  leader  crowned, 

And  armed  for  Greece  thai  day ; 
But  the  falchions  made  no  sound 

On  his  gleaming  war-array. 
In  the  battle's  front  he  stood, 

With  his  tall  and  shadowy  crest ; 
But  the  arrows  drew  no  blood, 

Though  their  path  was  through  his 
breast. 

Wh  n  banners  caught  the  breeze, 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone, 

When  masts  were  on  the  seas, 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 

His  sword  was  seen  to  flash 

Where  the  boldest  deeds  were  done; 
But  it  smote  without  a  clash — 

The  stroke  was  heard  by  none  I 
1  [is  voice  was  not  of  those 

That  swelled  the  rolling  blast. 
And  his  steps  fell  hushed  lik<-  sn»\vs — 

'Twas  the  Shade  of  Theseus  pa.^ed ! 


I42 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


When  banners  caught  the  breeze, 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone, 

When  masts  were  on  the  seas, 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 

Far  sweeping  through  the  foe, 
With  a  fiery  charge  he  bore  ; 

\nd  the  Mede  left  many  a  bow 
On  the  sounding  ocean-shore. 


And  the  foaming  waves  grew  red, 
And  the  sails  were  crowded  fast, 

When  the  sons  of  Asia  fled, 
As  tkc  Shade  of  Theseus  passed ! 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze, 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone, 

When  masts  were  on  the  seas, 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 


ANCIENT  GREEK  SONG  OF  EXILE. 

WHERE  is  the  summer  with  her  golden  sun  ? — 
That  festal  glory  hath  not  passed  from  earth  : 

For  me  alone  the  laughing  day  is  done ! 

Where  is  the  summer  with  her  voice  of  mirth 
— Far  in  my  own  bright  land ! 

Where  are  the  Fauns,  whose  flute-notes  breathe  and  die 
On  the  green  hills  ? — the  founts,  from  sparry  caves 

Through  the  wild  places  bearing  melody  ?— 
The  reeds,  low  whispering  o'er  the  river  waves  ? 
— Far  in  my  own  bright  land  ! 

Where  are  the  temples,  through  the  dim  wood  shining, 
The  virgin  dances,  and  the  choral  strains  ? 

Where  the  sweet  sisters  of  my  youth  entwining 
The  spring's  first  roses  for  their  sylvan  fanes  ? 
— Far  in  my  own  bright  land  ! 

Where  are  the  vineyards,  with  their  joyous  throngs, 
The  red  grapes  pressing  when  the  foliage  fades? 

The  lyres,  the  wreaths,  the  lovely  Dorian  songs, 
And  the  pine  forests,  and  the  olive  shades? 
— Far  in  my  own  bright  land  ! 

Where  the  deep  haunted  grots,  the  laurel  bowers, 
The  Dryad's  footsteps,  and  the  minstrel's  dreamt  ?— »• 

Oh,  that  my  life  were  as  a  southern  flower's ! — 
1  might  not  languish  then  by  these  chill  streamSj 
— Far  from  my  own  bright  land  I 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS.  143 

GREEK  FUNERAL  CHANT,  OR  MYRIOLOGUE. 

'Les  Chants  Funebres  par  lesquels  on  deplore  en  Grece  la  mortde  sesproches.prennent  1« 
nom  particulierde  Myriologia — comme  qui  dirait,  Discours  de  lamentation,  complaintes.  Uu 
malade  vient-il  de  rendre  le  dernier  soupir,  sa  femme,  sa  mere,  ses  filles,  ses  sceurs,  celles,  en  UB 
mot,  de  ses  plus  proches  parentes  qui  sont  la,  lui  ferment  les  yeux  et  la  bouche,  ene'panchant 
librement,  cliacune  selon  son  naturel  et  samesurede  tendresse  pour  le  de'funt,  la  douleur  qu'elle 
ressent  de  sa  perte.  Ce  premier  devoir  rempli,  elles  se  retirem  toutes  chez  une  de  leurs  paren- 
tes ou  de  leurs  amies.  La  elles  chaugcnt  de  vetemens,  s'habillent  de  blanc.  comme  pour  la  ce 
remonie  nuptiale,  avec  cette  difference,  qu'elles  gardent  la  tete  nue,  les  cheveujc  e'pars  et  pen- 
.  dams.  Ces  apprets  termmes,  les  parentes  reviennent  dans  leur  parure  de  deuil  ;  toutes  se  rarc 
'  gei.t  en  cercle  autour  du  mort,  et  leur  douleur  s'exhale  de  nouveau,  et  comme  la  premiere  fois, 
sans  regie  et  sans  contraiute.  A  ces  plaintes  spontanees  succedent  bientot  des  lamentations 
d' une  autre  espece:  ce  spnt  les  Myriologues.  Ordinairement  c'est  la  plus  proche  parentequi 
prononce  le  sien  la  premiere  ;  apres  elle  les  autres  parentes,  les  amies,  les  simples  yoisines. 
Lt.-.-.  Myriologues  sont  toujours  composes  et  chantes  par  les  femmes.  Ilssont  toujours  improvi- 
se.--, toujours  en  vers,  et  toujours  chantes  sur  un  air  qui  differe  d'un  lieu  a  un  autre,  mais  qui, 
dans  un  lieudonne,  rcste  invanablement  consacre  a  ce  genre  de  poesie." — Chants  Pofiiiaire* 
de  la  Grtce  Maderite,  par  C.  FAURIEL.] 

A  WAIL  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  deathbed  of  the  young—- 
Amidst her  tears  the  Funeral  Chant  a  mournful  mother  sung  : 
"  lanthis  !  dost  thou  sleep  ?     Thou  sleepest !  but  this  is  not  the  rest* 
The  breathing  and  the  rosy  calm,  I  have  pillowed  on  my  breast? 
I  lulled  thee  not  to  this  repose,  lanthis  !  my  sweet  son  ! 
As,  in  thy  glowing  childhood's  time,  by  twilight  I  have  done. 
How  is  it  that  I  bear  to  stand  and  look  upon  thee  now  ? 
And  that  I  die  not,  seeking  death  on  thy  pale  glorious  brow  ? 

"  I  look  upon  thee,  thou  that  wert  of  all  most  fair  and  brave  I 

I  see  thee  wearing  still  too  much  of  beauty  for  the  grave. 

Though  mournfully  thy  smile  is  fixed,  and  heavily  thine  eye        ^ 

Hath  shut  above  the  falcon-glance  that  in  it  loved  to  lie ; 

And  fast  is  bound  the  springing  step,  that  seemed  on  breezes  borne. 

When  to  thy  couch  I  came  and  said, — 'Wake,  hunter,  wake  !  'tis  morn!" 

Yet  art  thou  lovely  still,  my  flower !  untouched  by  slow  decay, — 

And  I,  the  withered  stem,  remain.     I  would  that  grief  might  slay  I 

"  Oh  !  ever,  when  I  met  thy  look,  I  knew  that  this  would  be  ! 

I  knew  too  well  that  length  of  days  was  not  a  gift  for  thee  ! 

I  saw  it  in  thy  kindling  cheek,  and  in  thy  bearing  high; — 

A  voice  came  whispering  to  my  soul,  and  told  me  thou  must  die  ! 

That  thou  must  die,  my  fearless  one !  where  swords  were  flashing  redl — 

Why  doth  a  mother  live  to  say — My  first-bor    and  my  dead  ! 

They  tell  me  of  thy  youthful  fame,  they  talk  of  victory  won : 

Speak  thou,  and  I  will  hear,  my  child  1  lanthis  1  my  sweet  sonl" 

A  wail  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  deathbed  of  the  young — 

A  fair-haired  bride  the  Funeral  Chant  amidst  her  weeping  sung  :  — 

"  lanthis  !  lookest  thou  not  on  me?    Can  love  indeed  be  fled? 

When  was  it  woe  before  to  gaze  upon  thy  stately  head  ? 

I  would  that  I  had  followed  thee,  lanthis,  my  beloved ! 

And  stood  as  woman  oft  hath  stood  where  faithful  hearts  arc  proved  ; 

That  I  had  bound  a  breastplate  on,  and  battled  at  thy  side  !— - 

It  would  have  been  a  blessed  thing  together  had  we  clied, '," 


f  44  LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 

"  But  where  was  I  when  thou  didst  fall  beneath  the  fatal  sword  ? 

Was  I  beside  the  sparkling  fount,  or  at  the  peaceful  board  ? 

Or  singing  some  sweet  song  of  old,  in  the  shadow  of  the  vine, 

Or  praying  to  the  saints  for  thee,  before  the  holy  shrine  ? 

And  thou  wert  lying  low  the  while,  the  life-drops  from  thy  heart 

Fast  gushing,  like  a  mountain  spring  !     And  couldst  thou  thus  depart  ? 

Couldst  thou  depart,  nor  on  my  lips  pour  out  thy  fleeting  breath  ? — 

Oh  !  I  was  with  thee  but  in  joy,  that  shouldst  have  been  in  death  ! 

"Yes  !  I  was  with  thee  when  the  dance  through  mazy  rings  was  led, 
And  when  the  lyre  and  voice  were  tuned,  and  when  the  feast  was  spread  ; 
But  not  where  noble  blood  flowed  forth,  where  sounding  javelins  flew — 
Why  -:lid  I  hear  love's  first  sweet  words,  and  not  its  last  adieu  ? 
Wha*  now  can  breathe  of  gladness  more, — what  scene,  what  hour,  what  tone? 
Tht  blue  skies  fade  with  all  their  lights;  they  fade,  since  thou  art  gone  1 
Even  that  must  leave  me,  that  still  face,  by  all  my  tears  unmoved  : 
Take  me  from  this  dark  world  with  thee,  lanthis  !  my  beloved  I  " 

A  wail  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  deathbed  of  the  young-  - 
Amidst  her  tears  the  Funeral  Chant  a  mournful  sister  sung  : — 
"  lanthis  I  brother  of  my  soul ! — oh  !  where  are  now  the  days 
That  laughed  among  the  deep-green  hills,  on  all  our  infant  plays  ? 
When  we  two  sported  by  the  streams,  or  tracked  them  to  their  source, 
And  like  the  stag's,  the  rocks  along,  was  thy  fleet,  fearless  course  1 — 
I  see  the  pines  there  waving  yet,  I  see  the  rills  descend, 
But  see  thy  bounding  step  no  more — my  brother  and  my  friend ! 

"  I  come  with  flowers — for  spring  is  come  !  lanthis  !  art  thou  here  f 

I  bring  the  garlands  she  hath  brought,  I  cast  them  on  thy  bier. 

Thou  shouldst  be  crowned  with  victory's  crown — but  oh  I  more  meet  they  seen 

The  first  faint  violets  of  the  wood,  and  lilies  of  the  stream — 

More  meet  for  one  so  fondly  loved,  and  laid  thus  early  low. 

Alas  !  how  sadly  sleeps  thy  face  amidst  the  sunshine's  glow — 

The  golden  glow  that  through  thy  heart  was  wont  such  joy  to  send  : 

Woe  !  that  it  smiles,  and  not  for  thee  ! — my  brother  and  my  friead  1 " 


GREEK  PARTING  SONG. 

IThis  piece  is  founded  on  a  tale  related  by  Fauriel,  in  his  "  Chansons  Popnlaires  de  la  Grec 
Moderne,"  and  accompanied  by  some  very  interesting  particulars  respecting  tlie  extempoe*. 
parting  songs,  or  songs  of  expatriation,  as  he  informs  us,  they  are  called,  in  which  the  modi 
ern  Greeks  are  accustomed  to  pour  forth  their  feelings  on  bidding  farewell  to  their  countrf 
and  friends.] 

A  YOUTH  went  forth  to  exile,  from  a  hone 
Such  as  to  early  thought  gives  images, 
The  longest  treasured,  and  most  oft  recalled, 
And  brightest,  kept  of  love ; — a  mountain  home, 
That,  with  the  murmur  of  its  rocking  pines, 
And  sounding  waters,  first  in  childhood's  heart 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS,  145 

Wakes  the  deep  sense  of  nature  unto  joy, 

And  half-unconscious  prayer  ; — a  Grecian  home, 

With  the  transparence  of  blue  skies  o'erhung, 

And,  through  the  dimness  of  its  olive  shades, 

Catching  the  flash  of  fountains,  and  the  gleam 

Of  shining  pillars  from  the  fanes  of  old. 

And  this  was  what  he  left !     Yet  many  leave 

Far  more — the  glistening  eye,  that  first  from  theirs 

Called  out  the  soul's  bright  smile  ;  the  gentle  hand, 

Which  through  the  sunshine  led  forth  infant  steps 

To  where  the  violets  lay ;  the  tender  voice 

That  earliest  taught  them  what  deep  melody 

Lives  in  affection's  tones.     He  left  not  these. 

Happy  the  weeper,  that  but  weeps  to  part 

With  all  a  mother's  love  !     A  bitter  grief 

Was  his — to  part  unloved! — of  her  unloved 

That  should  have  breathed  upon  his  heart,  like  spring, 

Fostering  its  young  faint  flowers ! 

Yet  had  he  friend*, 

And  they  went  forth  to  cheer  him  on  his  way 

Unto  the  parting  spot,  and  she  too  went, 

That  mother,  tearless  for  her  youngest-born. 

The  parting  spot  was  reached — a  lone  deep  glen, 

Holy,  perchance,  of  yore  ;  for  cave  and  fount 

Were  there,  and  sweet-voiced  echoes  ;  and  above, 

The  silence  of  the  blue  still  upper  heaven 

Hung  round  the  crags  of  Pindus,  where  they  wore 

Their  crowning  snows.     Upon  a  rock  he  sprung, 

The  unbeloved  one,  for  his  home  to  gaze 

Through  the  wild  laurels  back  ;  but  then  a  light 

Broke  on  the  stern  proud  sadness  of  his  eye, 

A  sudden  quivering  light,  and  from  his  lips 

A  burst  of  passionate  song. 

"  Farewell,  farewell ! 

I  hear  thee,  O  thou  rushing  stream  ! — thou'rt  from  my  native  dell, 
Thou'rt  bearing  thence  a  mournful  sound — a  murmur  of  farewell  ! 
And  fare  thee  well — flow  on,  my  stream  ! — flow  on,  thou  bright  and  free 
I  do  but  dream  that  'in  thy  voice  one  tone  laments  for  me  ; 
But  I  have  been  a  thing  unloved  from  childhood's  loving  years, 
And  therefore  turns  my  soul  to  thee,  for  thou  hast  known  my  tears  ! 
The  mountains,  and  the  caves,  and  thou,  my  secret  tears  have  known : 
The  woods  can  tell  where  he  wept,  that  ever  wept  alone  ! 

"  I  see  thee  once  again,  my  home  !  thou'rt  there  amidst  thy  vines, 
And  clear  upon  thy  gleaming  roof  the  light  of  summer  shines. 
It  is  a  joyous  hour  when  eve  comes  whispering  through  thy  groves — 
The  hour  that  brings  the  son  from  toil,  the  hour  the  mother  loves. 
The  hour  the  mother  loves  ! — for  me  beloved  it  hath  not  been  ; 
Yet  ever  in  its  purple  smile,  thou  smilest,  a  blessed  scene  ! 
Whose  quiet  beauty  o'er  my  soul  through  distant  years  will  corn*— 
Yet  what  but  as  the  dead,  to  thee,  shall  I  be  then,  my  home  ? 

10 


•46  LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 

"  Not  as  the  dead  ! — no,  not  the  dead  !     We  speak  of  them — \ve  keep 
Their  names,  like  light  that  must  not  fade,  within  our  bosoms  deep : 
We  hallow  even  the  lyre  they  touched,  we  love  the  lay  they  sung, 
We  pass  with  softer  step  the  place  they  filled  our  band  among  I 
But  I  depart  like  sound,  like  dew,  like  aught  that  leaves  on  earth 
No  trace  of  sorrow  or  delight,  no  memory  of  its  birth  ! 
I  go  1 — the  echo  of  the  rock  a  thousand  songs  may  swell 
When  mine  is  a  forgotten  voice.    Woods,  mountains,  home,  farewell ! 

'  And  farewell,  mother  !     I  have  borne  in  lonely  silence  long, 
But  now  the  current  of  my  soul  grows  passionate  and  strong  ; 
And  I  will  speak  !  though  but  the  wind  that  wanders  through  the  sky, 
And  but  the  dark,  deep-rustling  pines  and  rolling  streams  reply. 
Yes  !  I  will  speak  !     Within  my  breast,  whate'er  hath  seemed  to  be, 
There  lay  a  hidden  fount  of  love  that  would  have  gushed  for  thee ! 
Brightly  it  would  have  gushed — but  thou,  my  mother  !  thou  hast  thrown 
Back  on  the  forests  and  the  wilds,  what  should  have  been  thine  own  ! 

"Then  fare  thee  well !  I  leave  thee  not  in  loneliness  to  pine, 

Since  thou  hast  sons  of  statelier  mien  and  fairer  brow  than  mine. 

Forgive  me  that  thou  couldst  not  love ! — it  may  be  that  a  tone 

Yet  fro"r.  my  burning  heart  may  pierce  through  thine,  when  I  am  gone  ; 

And  thou,  perchance,  mayst  weep  for  him  on  whom  thou  ne'er  hast  smiled, 

And  the  grave  give  his  birthright  back  to  thy  neglected  child  ! 

Might  but  my  spirit  then  return,  and  midst  its  kindred  dwe'l, 

And  quench  its  thirst  with  love's  free  tears  !    'Tis  all  a  dream — farewell  J " 

"  Farewell  1 " — the  echo  died  with  that  deep  word ; 
Yet  died  not  so  the  late  repentant  pang 
By  the  strain  quickened  in  the  mother's  breast ! 
There  had  passed  many  changes  o'er  her  brow, 
And  cheek,  and  eye  ;  but  into  one  bright  flood 
Of  tears  at  last  all  melted  ;  and  she  fell 
On  the  glad  bosom  of  her  child,  and  cried, 
"  Return,  return,  my  son  !  "    The  echo  caught 
A  lovelier  sound  than  song,  and  woke  again, 
Murmuring,  "  Return,  my  son  1 " 


THE  SULIOTE  MOTHER. 

is  related,  in  a  French  life  of  All  Pasha,  that  several  of  the  Suliote  women,  on  the  arlvnnce 
of  the  Turkish  troops  into  the  mountain  fastnesses,  assembled  on  a  lofty  sun. mil,  am',  aftef 
chanting  a  wild  song,  precipitated  themselves  with  their  children,  into  the  chasm  below,  to 
avoid  becoming  the  slaves  of  the  enemy.] 

SHE  stood  upon  the  loftiest  peak, 

Amidst  the  clear  blue  sky ; 
A  bitter  smile  was  on  her  cheek, 

And  a  dark  flash  in  her  eye. 


LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


"  Dost  them  see  them,  boy  ?  —  through  the  dusky  pines 
Dost  thou  see  where  the  foeman's  armor  shines  ? 
Hast  thou  caught  the  gleam  of  the  conqueror's  crest  ? 
My  babe,  that  I  cradled  on  my  breast  ! 
Wouldst  thou  spring  from  thy  mother's  arms  with  joy? 
—That  sight  hath  cost  thee  a  father,  boy  I  " 

For  in  the  rocky  strait  beneath, 

Lay  Suliote  sire  and  son  : 
They  had  heaped  high  the  piles  of  death 

Before  the  pass  was  won. 

"  They  have  crossed  the  torrent,  and  on  they  come  : 
Woe  for  the  mountain  hearth  and  home  I 
There,  where  the  hunter  laid  by  his  spear, 
There,  where  the  lyre  hath  been  sweet  to  hear, 
There,  where  I  sang  thee,  fair  babe  I  to  sleep, 
Naught  but  the  blood-stain  our  trace  shall  keep  !  w 

And  now  the  horn's  loud  blast  was  heard, 

And  now  the  cymbal's  clang, 
Till  even  the  upper  air  was  stirred, 

As  cliff  and  hollow  rang. 

"  Hark  !  they  bring  music,  my  joyous  child  ! 
What  saith  the  trumpet  to  Suli's  wild  ? 
Doth  it  light  thine  eye  with  so  quick  a  fire, 
-  As  if  at  a  glance  of  thine  armed  sire  ? 

Still  !  —  be  thou  still  !  —  there  are  brave  men  low  : 
Thou  wouldst  not  smile  couldst  thou  see  him  now  I  " 

But  nearer  came  the  clash  of  steel, 

And  louder  swelled  the  horn, 
And  farther  yet  the  tambour's  peal 

Through  the  dark  pass  was  borne. 

"  Hear'st  thou  the  sound  of  their  savage  mirth  t 
Boy  !  thou  wert  free  when  I  gave  thee  birth,  — 
Free,  and  how  cherished,  my  warrior's  son  ! 
He  too  hath  blessed  thee,  as  I  have  done  ! 
Ay,  and  unchained  must  his  loved  ones  be  — 
Freedom,  young  Suliote  !  for  thee  and  me  !  " 

And  from  the  arrowy  peak  she  sprung, 

And  fast  the  fair  child  bore  :— 
A  veil  upon  the  wind  was  flung, 

A  cry  —  and  all  was  o'er  1 


148  LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 

THE  FAREWELL  TO  THE  DEAD. 

{The  following  piece  is  founded  on  a  beautiful  part  of  the  Greek  funeral  service,  in  which  rela- 
tives and  friends  are  invited  to  embrace  the  deceased  (whose  face  is  uncovered)  and  to  bid 
their  final  adieu. — See  Christian  Researches  in  the  Mediterranean^ 

"  Tis  hard  to  lay  into  the  earth 
A  countenance  so  benign  !  a  form  that  walked 
But  yesterday  so  stately  o'er  the  earth  !  " — WILSON 

COME  near  !     Ere  yet  the  dust 
Soil  the  bright  paleness  of.  the  settled  brow, 
Look  on  your  brother  ;  and  embrace  him  now, 

In  still  and  solemn  trust ! 

Come  near ! — once  more  let  kindred  lips  be  pressed 
On  his  cold  cheek ;  then  bear  him  to  his  rest ! 

Look  yet  on  this  young  face ! 
What  shall  the  beauty,  from  amongst  us  gone, 
Leave  of  its  image,  even  where  most  it  shone, 

Gladdening  its  hearth  and  race  ? 
Dim  grows  the  semblance  on  man's  heart  impressed. 
Come  near,  and  bear  the  beautiful  to  rest  I 

Ye  weep,  and  it  is  well ! 
For  tears  befit  earth's  partings  1     Yesterday, 
Song  was  upon  the  lips  of  this  pale  clay, 

And  sunshine  seemed  to  dwell 
Where'er  he  moved — the  welcome  and  the  blessed 
Now  gaze  !  and  bear  the  silent  unto  rest ! 

Look  yet  on  him  whose  eye 
Meets  yours  no  more,  in  sadness  or  in  mirth. 
Was  he  not  fair  amidst  the  sons  of  earth, 

The  beings  born  to  die  ? — 

but  not  where  death  has  power  may  love  be  blessed. 
Come  near  !  and  bear  ye  the  beloved  to  rest ! 

How  may  the  mother's  heart 
Dwell  on  her  son,  and  dare  to  hope  again  ? 
The  spring's  rich  promise  hath  been  given  in  vaitt— 

The  lovely  must  depart  I 
Is  he  not  gone,  our  brightest  and  our  best  ? 
Come  near  !  and  bear  the  early  called  to  rest ! 

Look  on  him !  Is  he  laid 
To  slumber  from  the  harvest  or  the  chase  ?— 
Too  still  and  sad  the  smile  upon  his  face  ; 

Yet  that,  even  that  must  fade : 
Death  holds  not  long  unchanged  his  fairest  guest. 
Come  near !  and  bear  the  mortal  to  his  rest ! 

His  voice  of  mirth  hath  ceased 
Amidst  the  vineyards !  there  is  left  no  place 
For  him  whose  dust  receives  your  vain  embrace, 

At  the  gay  bridal-feast ! 

Earth  must  take  earth  to  moulder  on  her  breast. 
Come  near  !  weep  o'er  him !  bear  him  to  his  rest. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  14$ 

Yet  mourn  ye  not  as  they 

Whose  spirit's  light  is  quenched  !     For  him  the  past 
Is  sealed  :  he  may  not  fall,  he  may  not  cast 

His  birthright's  hope  away  ! 
All  is  not  here  of  our  beloved  and  blessed. 
Leave  ye  the  sleeper  with  his  God  to  rest  I 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

ARABELLA   STUART. 


nil.    nuaii;  ctiiu    nmuu    ilia   bVuiMMWlu&l     111.111    wdmilg     W1L11    .1     uu.ii,   aim    d[l 

time  passed  ;  the  waves  were  rising  ;  Arabella  was  not  there  ;  but  in  the  di 


"And  is  not  love  in  vain 
Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb  ? " 

BYRON. 

"  Fermossi  al  fin  il  cor  che  balzfc  Unto.'' 

PINDBMONTB. 


TWAS  but  a  dream  !     I  saw  the  stag  leap  free, 
Under  the  boughs  where  early  birds  were  singing ; 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


I  stood  o'ershadowed  by  the  greenwood  tree. 

And  heard,  it  seemed,  a  sudden  bugle  ringing 
Far  through  a  roval  forest.     Then  the  fawn 
Shot  like  a  gleam  of  light,  from  grassy  lawn 
To  secret  covert :  and  the  smooth  tuff  shook, 
And  l:i»es  quivered  by  the  glade's  lone  brook, 
And  young  leaves  trembled,  as,  in  fleet  career, 
VA  princely  band,  with  horn,  and  hound,  and  spear, 
Like  a  rich  masque  swept  forth.     I  saw  the  dance 
Of  their  white  plumes,  that  bore  a  silvery  glance 
Into  the  deep  wood's  heart ;  and  all  passed  by 
Save  one — I  met  the  smile  of  one  clear  eye, 
Flashing  out  joy  to  mine.     Yes,  thou  weft  there, 
Seymour !  A  soft  wind  blew  the  clustering  hair 
l^Back  from  thy  gallant  brow,  as  thou  didst  rein 
Thy  courser,  turning  from  that  gorgeous  train, 
And  fling,  methought,  thy  hunting  spear  away, 
And,  lightly  graceful  in  thy  green  array, 
Bound  to  my  side.    And  we,  that  met  and  parted 

Even  in  dread  of  some  dark  watchful  power, 
Won  back  to  childhood's  trust,  and  fearless-hearted. 

Blent  the  glad  fulness  of  our  thoughts  that  hour 
VEven  like  the  mingling  of  sweet  streams,  beneath 
Dim  woven  leaves,  and  midst  the  floating  breath 
Of  hidden  forest-flowers. 

II. 

Tis  past !    I  wake, 

A  captive,  and  alone,  and  far  from  thee. 
My  love  and  friend !    Yet  fostering  for  thy  sake, 

A  quenchless  hope  of  happiness  to  be; 
And  feeling  still  my  woman-spirit  strong, 
In  the  deep  faith  which  lifts  from  earthly  wrong 
A  heavenward  glance.     I  know,  I  know  our  love 
Shall  yet  call  gentle  angels  from  above, 
By  its  undying  fervor,  and  prevail — 
Sending  a  breath,  as  of  the  spring's  first  gale, 
Through  hearts  now  cold ;  and,  raising  its  bright  face. 
With  a  free  gush  of  sunny  tears,  erase 
The  characters  of  anguish.    In  this  trust, 
I  bear,  I  strive,  I  bow  not  to  the  dust, 
That  I  may  bring  thee  back  no  faded  form, 
No  bosom  chilled  and  blighted  by  the  storm, 
But  all  my  youth's  first  treasures,  when  we  meet, 
"Mating  p^t  sorrow,  by  communion,  sweet 

in. 

And  thou  too  art  in  bonds !  Yet  droop  thou  not, 
O  my  beloved !  there  is  one  hopeless  lot, 
But  one,  and  that  not  ours.     Beside  the  dead 
There  sits  the  grief  that  mantles  op  its  head, 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  151 

Loathing  the  laughter  and  proud  pomp  of  light, 
When  darkness,  from  the  vainly  doting  sight 
Covers  its  beautiful !     If  thou  wert  gone 

To  the  grave's  bosom,  with  thy  radiant  brow — 
If  thy  deep-thrilling  voice,  with  that  low  tone 

Of  earnest  tenderness,  which  now,  even  now 
Seems  floating  through  my  soul,  were  music  taken 
Forever  from  this  world — oh  !  thus  forsaken 
Could  I  bear  on  ?    Thou  livest,  thou  livest,  thou'rt  mine ! 
With  this  glad  thought  I  make  my  heart  a  shrine, 
And  by  the  lamp  which  quenchless  there  shall  burn, 
Sit  a  lone  watcher  for  the  day's  return. 


And  lo  !  the  joy  that  cometh  with  the  morning, 

Brightly  victorious  o'er  the  hoars  of  care ! 
I  have  not  watched  in  vain,  serenely  scorning 

The  wild  and  busy  whispers  of  despair ! 
Thou  hast  sent  tidings,  as  of  heaven — I  wait 

The  hour,  the  sign,  for  blessed  flight  to  thee. 
Oh !  for  the  skylark's  wing  that  seeks  its  mate 

As  a  star  shoots ! — but  on  the  breezy  sea 
We  shall  meet  soon.     To  think  of  such  an  hour  ! 

Will  not  my  heart,  o'erburdened  by  its  bliss, 
Faint  and  give  way  within  me,  as  a  flower 

Borne  down  and  perishing  by  noontide's  kiss  ? 
Yet  shall  I  fear  that  lot — the  perfect  rest, 
The  full  deep  joy  of  dying  on  thy  breast, 
After  long  suffering  won  ?    So  rich  a  close 
Too  seldom  crowns  with  peace  affection's  woes. 

v. 

Sunset !     I  tell  each  moment.     From  the  skies 
The  last  red  splendor  floats  along  my  wall, 

Like  a  king's  banner !     Now  it  melts,  it  dies ! 
I  see  one  star — I  hear — 'twas  not  the  call, 

The  expected  voice ;  my  quick  heart  throbbed  too  soon, 

I  must  keep  vigil  till  yon  rising  moon 

Showers  down  less  golden  light.     Beneath  her  beam 

Through  my  lone  lattice  poured,  I  sit  and  dream 

Of  summer-lands  afar,  where  holy  love, 

Under  the  vine  or  in  the  citron  grove, 

May  breathe  from  terror. 

Now  the  night  grows  deep, 
And  silent  as  its  clouds,  and  full  of  sleep. 
I  hear  my  veins  beat.     Hark !  a  bell's  slow  chime  I 
My  heart  strikes  with  it.     Yet  again — 'tis  time  ! 
A  step  ! — a  voice  !— or  but  a  rising  breeze  ? 
Hark ! — haste ! — I  come,  to  meet  thee  on  the  seas  ! 
*«*»*»• 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


Now  never  more,  oh  !  never,  in  the  worth 
Of  its  pure  cause,  let  sorrowing  love  on  earth 
Trust  fondly — never  more  !     The  hope  is  crushed 
That  lit  my  life,  the  voice  within  me  hushed 
That  spoke1  sweet  oracles ;  and  I  return 
To  lay  my  youth,  as  in  a  burial  urn, 
Where  sunshine  may  not  find  it.     All  is  lost ! 
No  tempest  met  our  barks — no  billow  tossed  ; 
Yet  were  they  severed,  even  as  we  must  be, 
That  so  have  loved,  so  striven  our  hearts  to  free 
From  their  close-coiling  fate  !     In  vain — in  vainl 
The  dark  links  meet,  and  clasp  themselves  again, 
And  press  out  life.     Upon  the  deck  I  stood 
And  a  white  sail  came  gliding  o'er  the  flood, 
Like  some  proud  bird  of  ocean ;  then  mine  eye 
Strained  out,  one  moment  earlier  to  descry 
The  formed  it  ached  for,  and  the  bark's  career 
Seemed  slow  to  that  fond  yearning  :  it  drew  near 
Fraught  with  our  foes  !     What  boots  it  to  recall 
The  strife,  the  tears  ?    Once  more  a  prison  wall 
Shuts  the  green  hills  and  woodlands  from  my  sight, 
And  joyous  glance  of  waters  to  the  light, 
And  thee,  my  Seymour ! — thee ! 

I  will  not  sink 

Thou,  thou  hast  rent  the  heavy  chain  that  bound  thee  ! 
And  this  shall  be  my  strength — the  joy  to  think 

That  thou  mayest' wander  with  heaven's  breath  around  thee 
And  all  the  laughing  sky  !     This  thought  shall  yet 
Shine  o'er  my  heart  a  radiant  amulet, 
Guarding  it  from  despair.     Thy  bonds  are  broken ; 
And  unto  me,  I  know,  thy  true  love's  token 
Shall  one  day  be  deliverance,  though  the  years 
Lie  dim  between,  o'erhung  with  mists  of  tears. 

VII.; 

My  friend  !  my  friend  !  where  art  thou  ?    Day  by  day, 
Gliding  like  some  dark  mournful  stream  away, 
My  silent  youth  flows  from  me.     Spring,  the  while, 

Comes  and  rains  beauty  on  the  kindling  boughs 
Round  hall  and  hamlet ;  summer  with  her  smile 

Fills  the  green  forest ;  young  hearts  breathe  their  vows 
Brothers  long  parted  meet ;  fair  children  rise 
Round  the  glad  board  ;  hope  laughs  from  loving  eyes : 
All  this  is  in  the  world  I — These  joys  lie  sown, 
The  dew  of  every  path !     On  one  alone 
Their  freshness  may  not  fall — the  stricken  deer 
Dying  of  thirst  with  all  the  waters  near. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  153 


Ye  are  from  dingle  and  fresh  glade,  ye  flowers ! 

By  some  kind  hand  to  cheer  my  dungeon  sent ; 
O'er  you  the  oak  shed  down  the  summer  showers, 

And  the  lark's  nest  was  where  your  bright  cups  bent, 
Quivering  to  breeze  and  raindrop,  like  the  sheen 
Of  twilight  stars.     On  you  heaven's  eye  hath  been, 
Through  the  leaves  pouring  its  dark  sultry  blue 
Into  your  glowing  hearts  ;  the  bee  to  you 
Hath  murmured,  and  the  rill.     My  soul  grows  faint 
With  passionate  yearning,  as  its  quick  dreams  paint 
Your  haunts  by  dell  and  stream — the  green,  the  free, 
The  full  of  all  sweet  sound— the  shut  from  me  ! 


There  went  a  swift  bird  singing  past  my  cell 

O  Love  and  Freedom  !  ye  are  lovely  things  ! 
With  you  the  peasant  on  the  hills  may  dwell, 

And  by  the  streams.     But  I — the  blood  of  kings, 
A  proud  unmingling  river,  through  my  veins 
Flows  in  lone  brightness,  and  its  gifts  are  chains! 
Kings  1 — I  had  silent  visions  of  deep  bliss, 
Leaving  their  thrones  far  distant ;  and  for  this 
I  am  cast  under  their  triumphal  car, 
An  insect  to  be  crushed  !     Oh !  heaven  is  far — 
Earth  pitiless ! 

Dost  thou  forget  me,  Seymour  ?    I  am  proved 

So  long,  so  sternly  !     Seymour,  my  beloved  1 

There  are  such  tales  of  holy  marvels  done 

By  strong  affection,  of  deliverance  won 

Through  its  prevailing  power  !     Are  these  things  told 

Till  the  young  weep  with  rapture,  and  the  old 

Wonder,  yet  dare  not  doubt ;  and  thou  !  oh,  thou  ! 

Dost  thou  forget  me  in  my  hope's  decay  ? — 
Thou  canst  not !     Through  the  silent  night,  even  now, 

I,  that  need  prayer  so  much,  awake  and  pray 
Still  first  for  thee.     O  gentle,  gentle  friend ! 
How  shall  I  bear  this  anguish  to  the  end  ? 

Aid  ! — comes  there  yet  no  aid  ?     The  voice  of  blood 

Passes  heaven's  gate,  even  ere  the  crimson  flood 

Sinks  through  the  greensward  !     Is  there  not  a  cry 

From  the  wrung  heart,  of  power,  through  agony, 

To  pierce  the  clouds  ?     Hear,  Mercy  ! — hear  me  !     None 

That  bleed  and  weep  beneath  the  smiling  sun 

Have  heavier  cause  !     Yet  hear  ! — my  soul  grows  dark  ! — 

Who  hears  the  last  shriek  from  the  sinking  bark 

On  the  rnid  seas,  and  with  the  storm  alone, 

And  bearing  to  the  abyss,  unseen,  unknown, 

Its  freight  of  human  hearts  ?     The  o'ermastering  wave 

Who  shall  tell  how  it  rushed— and  none  to  save  J 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


Thou  hast  forsaken  me  !     I  feel,  I  know, 
There  would  be  rescue  if  this  were  not  so. 
Thou'rt  at  the  chase,  thou'rt  at  the  festive  board, 
Thou'rt  where  the  red  wine  free  and  high  is  poured, 
Thou'rt  where  the  dancers  meet  !     A  magic  glass 
Is  set  within  my  soul,  and  proud  shapes  pass, 
Flushing  it  o'er  with  pomp  from  bower  and  hall  ; 
I  see  one  shadow,  stateliest  there  of  all  — 

Thine  !    What  dost  thou  amidst  the  bright  and  fair, 
Whispering  light  words,  and  mocking  my  despair  ? 
It  is  not  well  of  thee  !     My  love  was  more 
Than  fiery  song  may  breathe,  deep  thought  explore 
And  there  thou  smilest,  while  my  heart  is  dying, 
With  all  its  blighted  hopes  around  it  lying  : 
Even  thou,  on  whom  they  hung  their  last  green  leaf 
Yet  smile,  smile  on  !  too  bright  art  thou  for  grief  ! 

Death  !     What  !  is  death  a  locked  and  treasured  thing, 

Guarded  by  swords  of  fire  ?  a  hidden  spring, 

A  fabled  fruit,  that  I  should  thus  endure, 

As  if  the  world  within  me  held  no  cure  ? 

Wherefore  not  spread  free  wings  -  Heaven,  heaven  control 

These  thoughts  !  —  they  rush  —  I  look  into  my  soul 

As  down  a  gulf,  and  tremble  at  the  array 

Of  fierce  forms  crowding  it  !     Give  strength  to  pray  1 

So  shall  their  dark  host  pass. 

The  storm  is  stilled. 

Father  in  Heaven  !  thou,  only  thou,  canst  sound 
The  heart's  great  deep,  with  floods  of  anguish  filled, 

For  human  line  too  fearfully  profound. 
Therefore,  forgive,  my  Father  !  if  thy  child, 
Rocked  on  its  heaving  darkness,  hath  gown  wild 
And  sinned  in  her  despair.     It  well  may  be 
Tkat  thou  wouldst  lead  my  spirit  back  to  thee, 
By  the  crushed  hope  too  long  on  this  world  poured— 
The  stricken  love  which  hath  perchance  adored 
A  mortal  in  thy  place  I     Now  let  me  strive 
With  thy  strong  arm  no  more  !     Forgive,  forgive  ! 
Take  me  to  p_ace  1 

And  peace  at  last  is  nigh. 

A  sign  is  on  my  brow,  a  token  sent 
The  o'erwearied  dust  from  home  :  no  breeze  flits  by, 

But  calls  me  with  a  strange  sweet  whisper,  blent 
Of  many  mysteries. 

Hark  !  the  warning  tone 
Deepens  —  its  word  is  Death  !    Alone,  alone, 
And  sad  in  youth,  but  chastened,  I  depart, 
•owing  to  heaven.    Yet,  yet  my  woman's  heart 


RECORDS  Of  WOMAN.  155 

Shall  wake  a  spirit  and  a  power  to  bless, 
Even  in  this  hour's  o'ershadowing  fearfulness, 
Thee,  its  first  love  !     O  tender  still,  and  true! 
Be  it  forgotten  if  mine  anguish  threw 
Drops  from  its  bitter  fountain  on  thy  name, 
Though  but  a  moment ! 

Now,  with  fainting  frame, 
With  soul  just  lingering  on  the  flight  begun, 
To  bind  for  thee  its  last  dim  thoughts  in  one, 
I  bless  thee !     Peace  be  on  thy  noble  head, 
Years  of  bright  fame,  when  I  am  with  the  dead ! 
I  bid  this  prayer  survive  me,  and  retain 
Its  might,  again  to  bless  thee,  and  again  ! 
Thou  hast  been  gathered  into  my  dark  fate 
Too  much  ;  too  long,  for  my  sake,  desolate 
Hath  been  thine  exiled  youth  :  but  now  take  back, 
From  dying  hands,  thy  freedom,  and  re-track 
(After  a  few  kind  tears  for  her  whose  days 
Went  out  in  dreams  of  thee}  the  sunny  ways 
Of  hope,  and  find  thou  happiness!     Yet  send 
Even  then,  in  silent  hours,  a  thought,  dear  friend  I 
Down  to  my  voiceless  chamber  ;  for  thy  love 
Hath  been  to  me  all  gifts  of  earth  above, 
Though  bought  with  burning  tears  !     It  is  the  sting 
Of  death  to  leave  that  vainly-precious  thing 
In  this  cold  world !     What  were  it,  then,  if  thou, 
With  thy  fond  eyes,  wert  gazing  on  me  now  ? 
Too  keen  a  pang  !     Farewell !  and  yet  once  more, 
Farewell !     The  passion  of  long  years  I  pour 
Into  that  word  I     Thou  hearest  not — but  the  woe 
And  fervor  of  its  tones  may  one  day  flow 
To  thy  heart's  holy  place  :  there  let  them  dwell. 
We  shall  o'ersweep  the  grave  to  meet.     Farewell ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLE.1 

"  Fear  !     I'm  a  Greek,  and  how  should  I  fear  death? 
A  slave,  and  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  freedom  ? 

I  will  not  live  degraded." 

Sardanapalut. 

COME  from  the  woods  with  the  citron-flowers, 
Come  with  your  lyres  for  the  festal  hours, 
Maids  of  bright  Scio  !     They  came,  and  the  breeze 
Bore  their  sweet  songs  o'er  the  Grecian  seas ; 
They  came,  and  Eudora  stood  robed  and  crowned, 
The  bride  of  the  morn,  with  her  train  around. 

1  Founded  on  a  circumstance  related  in  the  second  series  of  the  Curiosities  of  Littratttrt^ 
led  forming  part  of  a  picture  in  the  "Painted  Biography"  there  described. 


156  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

J.ewels  flashed  out  from  her  braided  hair, 
Like  starry  dews  midst  the  roses  there  ; 
Pearls  on  her  bosom  quivering  shone, 
Heaved  by  her  heart  through  its  golden  zone. 
But  a  brow,  as  those  gems  of  the  ocean  pale, 
Gleamed  from  beneath  her  transparent  veil  ; 
Changeful  and  faint  was  her  fair  cheek's  hue, 
Though  clear  as  a  flower  which  the  light  looks  through  ; 
And  the  glance  of  her  dark  resplendent  eye, 
For  the  aspect  of  woman  at  times  too  high, 
Lay  floating  in  mists,  which  the  troubled  stream 
Of  the  soul  sent  up  o'er  its  fervent  beam. 

She  looked  on  the  vine  at  her  father's  door, 

Like  one  that  is  leaving  his  native  shore ; 

She  hung  o'er  the  myrtle  once  called  her  own, 

As  it  greenly  waved  by  the  threshold  stone  ; 

She  turned — and  her  mother's  gaze  brought  back 

Each  hue  of  her  childhood's  faded  track. 

Oh !  hush  the  song,  and  let  her  tears 

Flow  to  the  dream  of  her  early»years  ! 

Holy  and  pure  are  the  drops  that  fall 

When  the  young  bride  goes  from  her  father's  hall ; 

She  goes  unto  love  yet  untried  and  new, 

She  parts  from  love  which  hath  still  been  true : 

Mute  be  the  song  and  the  choral  strain. 

Till  her  heart's  deep  well-spring  is  clear  again  ! 

She  wept  on  her  mother's  faithful  breast, 

Like  a  babe  that  sobs  itself  to  rest ; 

She  wept — yet  laid  her  hand  awhile 

In  his  that  waited  her  dawning  smile — 

Her  soul's  affianced,  nor  cherished  less 

For  the  gush  of  nature's  tenderness  ! 

She  lifted  her  graceful  head  at  last — 

The  choking  swell  of  her  heart  was  past ; 

And  her  lovely  thoughts  from  their  cells  found  way 

In  the  sudden  flow  of  a  plaintive  lay. 


THE  BRIDE'S  FAREWELL. 

WHY  do  I  weep  ?    To  leave  the  vine 

.  Whose  clusters  o'er  me  bend  ; 
The  myrtle — yet,  oh,  call  it  mine ! — 

The  flowers  I  love  to  tend. 
A  thousand  thoughts  of  all  things  dew 

Like  shadows  o'er  me  sweep ; 
I  leave  my  sunny  childhood  here, 
Oh  !  therefore  let  me  weep  I 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  .  157 

I  leave  thee,  sister  !  we  have  played 

Through  many  a  joyous  hour, 
Where  the  silvery  green  of  the  olive  shade 

Hung  dim  o'er  fount  and  bower. 
Yes  !  thou  and  I,  by  stream,  by  shore, 

In  song,  in  prayer,  in  sleep, 
Have  been  as  we  may  be  no  more — 

Kind  sister,  let  me  weep  1 

I  leave  thee,  father  1     Eve's  bright  moon 

Must  now  light  other  feet, 
With  the  gathered  grapes,  and  the  lyre  in  tune, 

Thy  homeward  step  to  greet. 
Thou,  in  whose  voice,  to  bless  thy  child, 

Lay  tones  of  love  so  deep, 
Whose  eye  o'er  all  my  youth  hath  smiled — 

I  leave  thee  !  let  me  weep ! 

Mother  !  I  leave  thee  !  on  thy  breast 

Pouring  out  joy  and  woe, 
I  have  found  that  holy  place  of  rest 

Still  changeless — yet  I  go ! 
Lips,  that  have  lulled  me  with  your  strain! 

Eyes,  that  have  watched  my  sleep  ! 
Will  earth  give  love  like  yours  again  ?— 

Sweet  mother  !  let  me  weep  ! 

And  like  a  slight  young  tree  that  throws 
The  weight  of  rain  from  its  drooping  boughs, 
Once  more  she  wept.     But  a  changeful  thing 
Is  the  human  heart — as  a  mountain  spring 
That  works  its  way,  through  the  torrent's  foam, 
To  the  bright  pool  near  it,  the  lily's  home ! 
It  is  well  ! — the  cloud  on  her  soul  that  lay, 
Hath  melted  in  glittering  drops  away. 
Wake  again,  mingle,  sweet  flute  and  lyre! 
She  turns  to  her  lover,  she  leaves  her  sire. 
Mother  1  on  earth  it  must  still  be  so : 
Thou  rearest  the  lovely  to  see  them  go  ! 

They  are  moving  onward,  the  bridal  throng, 

Ye  may  track  their  way  by  the  swells  of  song ; 

Ye  may  catch  through  the  foliage  their  white  robes'  gleam, 

Like  a  swan  midst  the  reeds  of  a  shadowy  stream ; 

Their  arms  bear  up  garlands,  their  gliding  tread 

Is  over  the  deep-veined  violet's  bed  ; 

They  have  light  leaves  around  them, blue  skies  above, 

An  arch  for  the  triumph  of  youth  and  love  ! 

II. 

Still  and  sweet  was  the  home  that  stood 
In  the  flowering  depths  of  a  Grecian  wood, 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


With  the  soft  green  light  o'er  its  low  roof  spread, 
As  if  from  the  glow  of  an  emerald  shed, 
Pouring  through  lime-leaves  that  mingled  on  high, 
Asleep  in  the  silence  of  noon's  clear  sky. 
Citrons  amidst  their  dark  foliage  glowed, 
Making  a  gleam  round  the  lone  abode  ; 
Laurels  o'erhung  it,  whose  faintest  shiver 
Scattered  out  rays  like  a  glancing  river  ; 
Stars  of  jasmine  its  pillars  crowned, 
Vine-stalks  its  lattice  and  the  walls  had  bound  ; 
And  brightly  before  it  a  fountain's  play 
Flung  showers  through  a  thicket  of  glossy  bay, 
To  a  cypress  which  rose  in  that  flashing  rain, 
Like  one  tall  shaft  of  some  fallen  fane. 

And  thither  lanthis  had  brought  his  bride, 
And  the  guests  were  met  by  that  fountain  side. 
They  lifted  the  veil  from  Eudora's  face  — 
It  smiled  out  softly  in  pensive  grace, 
With  lips  of  love,  and  a  brow  serene, 
Meet  for  the  soul  of  the  deep-wood  scene. 
Bring  wine,  bring  odors!  —  the  board  is  spread; 
Bring  roses  !  a  chaplet  for  every  head  ! 
The  wine-cups  foamed,  and  the  rose  was  showered 
On  the  young  and  fair  from  the  world  embowered  ; 
The  sun  looked  not  on  them  in  that  sweet  shade, 
The  winds  amid  scented  boughs  were  laid  ; 
And  there  came  by  fits,  through  some  wavy  tree, 
A  sound  and  a  gleam  of  the  moaning  sea. 

Hush  !  be  still  !     Was  that  no  more 
Than  the  murmur  from  the  shore  ? 
Silence  !  —  did  thick  rain-drops  beat 
On  the  grass  like  trampling  feet  I 
Fling  down  the  goblet,  and  draw  the  sword  ! 
The  groves  are  filled  with  a  pirate  horde  ! 
Through  the  dim  olives  their  sabres  shine  ! 
Now  must  the  red  blood  stream  for  wine  ! 

The  youths  from  the  banquet  to  battle  sprang, 

The  woods  with  the  shrieks  of  the  maidens  rang  ; 

Under  the  golden-fruited  boughs 

There  were  flashing  poniards  and  darkening  brows- 

Footsteps,  o'er  garland  and  lyre  that  fled, 

And  the  dying  soon  on  a  greensward  bed. 

—  Eudora,  Eudora  !  thou  dost  not  fly  !  — 

She  saw  but  lanthis  before  her  lie, 

With  the  blood  from  his  breast  in  a  gushing  flow, 

Like  a  child's  large  tears  in  its  hour  of  woe, 

And  a  gathering  film  in  his  lifted  eye, 

That  sought  his  voung  bride  out  mournfully. 

She  knelt  down  beside  him  —  her  arms  she  wound 

Like  tendrils,  his  drooping  neck  around, 


RECORDS  OF  WO  MAX.  159 

As  if  the  passion  of  that  fond  grasp 

Might  chain  in  life  with  its  ivy-clasp 

But  they  tore  her  thence  in  her  wild  despair, 

The  sea's  fierce  rovers — they  left  him  there  : 

They  left  to  the  fountain  a  dark-red  vein, 

And  on  the  wet  violets  a  pile  of  slain, 

And  a  hush  of  fear  through  the  summer  grove.— 

So  closed  the  triumph  of  youth  and  love  ! 


Gloomy  lay  the  shore  that  night, 

When  the  moon,  with  sleeping  light, 

Bathed  each  purple  Sciote  hill  — 

Gloomy  lay  the  shore,  and  still. 

O'er  the  wave  no  gay  guitar 

Sent  its  floating  music  far  ; 

No  glad  sound  of  dancing  feet 

Woke  the  starry  hours  to  greet. 

But  a  voice  of"  mortal  woe, 

In  its  changes  wild  or  low, 

Through  the  midnight's  blue  repose, 

From  the  sea-beat  rocks  arose, 

As  Eudora's  mother  stood 

Gazing  o'er  the  /Egean  flood, 

With  a  fixed  and  straining  eye — 

Oh  I  was  the  spoiler's  vessel  nigh  ? 

Yes  !  there,  becalmed  in  silent  sleep, 

Dark  and  alone  on  a  breathless  deep, 

On  a  sea  of  molten  silver,  dark 

Brooding  it  frowned,  that  evil  bark  I 

There  its  broad  pennon  a  shadow  cast, 

Moveless  and  black  from  the  tall  still  mast; 

And  the  heavy  sound  of  its  flapping  sail 

Idly  and  vainly  wooed  the  gale. 

Hushed  was  all  else — had  ocean's  breast 

Rocked  e'en  Eudora  that  hour  to  rest  ? 

To  rest  ?  the  waves  tremble  ! — what  piercing  cry 

Bursts  from  the  heart  of  the  ship  on  high  ! 

What  light  through  the  heavens,  in  a  sudden  spire, 

Shoots  from  the  deck  up  ?     Fire  I  'tis  fire  ! 

There  are  wild  forms  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

Seen  darkly  clear  on  that  lurid  glow ; 

There  are  shout,  and  signal-gun,  and  call, 

And  the  dashing  of  water — but  fruitless  all  I 

Man  may  not  fetter,  nor  ocean  tame 

The  might  and  wrath  of  the  rushing  flame  1 

It  hath  twined  the  mast  like  a  glittering  snake, 

That  coils  up  a  tree  from  a  dusky  brake  ; 

It  hath  touched  the  sails,  and  their  canvas  rolls 

Away  from  its  breath  into  shrivelled  scrolls  ; 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


It  hath  taken  the  flag's  high  place  in  the  air, 

And  reddened  the  stars  with  its  wavy  glare  ; 

And  sent  out  bright  arrows,  and  soared  in  glee, 

To  a  burning  mount  midst  the  moonlight  sea, 

The  swimmers  are  plunging  from  stern  and  prow  — 

Eudora  !  Eudora  !  where,  where  art  thou  ? 

The  slave  and  his  master  alike  are  gone  — 

Mother!  who  stands  on  the  deck  alone? 

The  child  of  thy  bosom  !  —  and  lo  !  a  brand 

Blazing  up  high  in  her  lifted  hand  ! 

And  her  veil  flung  back,  and  her  free  dark  hair 

Swayed  by  the  flames  as  they  rock  and  flare; 

And  her  fragile  form  to  its  loftiest  height 

Dilated,  as  if  by  the  spirit's  might  ; 

And  her  eye  with  an  eagle-gladness  fraught  — 

Oh  1  could  this  work  be  of  woman  wrought  ? 

Yes  1  'twas  her  deed  !  —  by  that  haughty  smile, 

It  was  hers  :  she  hath  kindled  her  funeral  pile  ! 

Never  might  shame  on  that  bright  head  be, 

Her  blood  was  the  Greek's,  and  hath  made  her  free  I 

Proudly  she  stands  like  an  Indian  bride, 

On  the  pyre  with  the  holy  dead  beside  ; 

But  a  shriek  from  her  mother  hath  caught  her  ear, 

As  the  flames  to  her  marriage  robe  draw  near, 

And  starting,  she  spreads  her  pale  arms  in  vain 

To  the  form  they  must  never  infold  again. 

—  One  moment  more,  and  her  hands  are  clasped  — 

Fallen  is  the  torch  they  had  wildly  grasped  — 

Her  sinking  knee  unto  heaven  is  bowed, 

And  her  last  look  raised  through  the  smoke's  dim  shroud, 

And  her  lips  as  in  prayer  for  her  pardon  move  ;  — 

Now  the  night  gathers  o'er  youth  and  love  ! 


THE  SWITZER'S  WIFE. 

(Werner  Stauffacher,  one  of  the  three  confederates  of  the  field  of  Griitli,  had  been  alarmed  bjr 
the  e'nvy  with  which  the  Austrian  bailiff,  Landenberg,  had  noticed  the  appearance  of  wealth 
and  comfort  which  distinguished  his  dwelling.  It  was  not,  however,  until  roused  by  the 
entreaties  of  his  wife,  a  woman  who  seems  to  have  been  of  a  heroic  spirit,  that  he  was  in- 
duced to  deliberate  with  his  friends  upon  the  measures  by  which  Switzerland  was  finally  de- 
livered.] 

"  Nor  look  nor  tone  revealeth  aught 
Save  woman's  quietness  of  thought ; 
And  yet  around  her  is  a  light 
Of  inward  majesty  and  might." — M.  J.  J. 

"  Wer  solch  ein  herz  an  sienen  Busen  driickt, 
Der  kann  fur  herd  und  hof  mil  freuden  fecliten." 

WILLHELM  TBLL. 

IT  was  the  time  when  children  bound  to  meet 
Their  father's  homeward  step  from  field  or  hill, 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  lt>I 

And  when  the  herd's  returning  bells  are  sweet, 
In  the  Swiss  valleys,  and  the  lakes  grow  still, 
And  the  last  note  of  that  wild  horn  swells  by 
Which  haunts  the  exile's  heart  with  melody. 

And  lovely  smiled  full  many  an  Alpine  home, 

Touched  with  the  crimson  of  the  dying  huur, 
Which  lit  its  low  roof  by  the  torrent's  foam, 

And  pierced  its  lattice  through  the  vine-hung  bow«r ; 
But  one,  the  loveliest  o'er  the  land  that  rose, 
Then  first  looked  mournful  in  its  green  repose. 

For  Werner  sat  beneath  the  linden  tree, 

That  sent  its  lulling  whispers  through  his  door, 

Even  as  man  sits,  whose  heart  alone  would  be 
With  some  deep  care,  and  thus  can  find  no  more 

The  accustomed  joy  in  all  which  evening  brings, 

Gathering  a  household  with  her  quiet  wings. 

His  wife  stood  hushed  before  him — sad,  yet  mild 

In  her  beseeching  mien  ! — he  marked  it  not. 
The  silvery  laughter  of  his  bright-haired  child 

Rang  from  the  greensward  round  the  sheltered  spot, 
But  seemed  unheard  ;  until  at  last  the  boy 
Raised  from  his  heaped-up  flowers  a  glance  of  joy, 

And  met  his  father's  face.     But  then  a  change 

Passed  swiftly  o'er  the  brow  of  infant  glee, 
And  a  quick  sense  of  something  dimly  strange 

Brought  him  from  play  to  stand  beside  the  knee 
So  often  climbed,  and  lift  his  loving  eyes 
That  shone  through  clouds  of  sorrowful  surprise. 

Then  the  proud  bosom  of  the  strong  man  shook  ; 

But  tenderly  his  babe's  fair  mother  laid 
Her  hand  on  his,  and  with  a  pleading  look, 

Through  tears  half-quivering,  o'er  him  bent  and  said, 
"  What  grief,  dear  friend,  hath  made  thy  heart  its  prey- 
That  thou  shouldst  turn  thee  from  our  love  away  ? 

*  It  is  too  sad  to  see  thee  thus,  my  friend ! 

Mark'st  thou  the  wonder  on  thy  boy's  fair  brow, 
Missing  the  smile  from  thine  !     Oh,  cheer  thee  I  bend 

To  his  soft  arms  :  unseal  thy  thoughts  e'en  now  1 
Thou  dost  not  kindly  to  withhold  the  share 
Of  tried  affection  in  thy  secret  care." 

He  looked  up  into  that  sweet  earnest  face, 

But  sternly,  mournfully  :  not  yet  the  band 
Was  loosened  from  his  soul ;  its  inmost  place 

Not  yet  unveiled  by  love's  o'ermastering  hand, 
"  Speak  low  !  "  he  cried,  and  pointed  where  on  high 
The  white  Alps  glittered  through  the  solemn  sky  : 


1 62  RECOKDS  OF  WOMAN. 

"  We  must  speak  low  amidst  our  ancient  hills 
And  their  free  torrents ;  for  the  days  are  come 

When  tyranny  lies  couched  by  forest  rills, 

And  meets  the  shepherd  in  his  mountain-home. 

Go,  pour  the  wine  of  our  own  grapes  in  fear — 

Keep  silence  by  the  hearth  !  its  foes  are  near. 

"  The  envy  of  the  oppressor's  eye  hath  been 

Upon  my  heritage.     I  sit  to-night 
Under  my  household  tree,  if  not  serene, 

Yet  with  the  faces  best  beloved  in  sight  : 
To-morrow  eve  may  find  me  chained,  and  thee — 
How  can  I  bear  the  boy's  young  smiles  to  see  ? " 

The  bright  blood  left  that  youthful  mother's  cheek ; 

Back  on  the  linden  stem  she  leaned  her  form; 
And  her  lip  trembled  as  it  strove  to  speak, 

Like  a  frail  harp  string  shaken  by  the  storm. 
'Twas  but  a  moment,  and  the  faintness  passed, 
And  the  free  Alpine  spirit  woke  at  last 

And  she,  that  ever  through  her  home  had  moved 
With  the  meek  thoughtfulness  and  quiet  smile 

Of  woman,  calmly  loving  and  beloved, 
And  timid  in  her  happiness  the  while, 

Stood  brightly  forth,  and  steadfastly»  that  hour — 

Her  clear  glance  kindling  into  sudden  power. 

Ay,  pale  she  stood,  but  with  an  eye  of  light, 
And  took  her  fair  child  to  her  holy  breast, 

And  lifted  her  soft  voice,  that  gathered  might 

As  it  found  language : — "  Are  we  thus  oppressed  ? 

Then  must  we  rise  upon  our  mountain-sod, 

And  man  must  arm,  and  woman  call  on  God  ! 

"  I  know  what  thou  wouldst  do  ; — and  be  it  done  ! 

Thy  soul  is  darkened  with  its  fears  for  me. 
Trust  me  to  heaven,  my  husband !  this,  thy  son, 

The  babe  whom  I  have  borne  thee,  must  be  free  ! 
And  the  sweet  memory  of  our  pleasant  hearth 
May  well  give  strength— if  aught  be  strong  on  earth. 

"  Thou  hast  been  brooding  o'er  the  silent  dread 
Of  my  desponding  tears  ;  now  lift  once  more, 

My  hunter  of  the  hills !  thy  stately  head, 
And  let  thine  eagle  glance  my  joy  restore ! 

I  can  bear  all,  but  seeing  thee  subdued — 

Take  to  thee  back  thine  own  undaunted  mood. 

"  Go  forth  beside  the  waters,  and  along 
The  chamois  paths,  and  through  the  forests  go ; 

And  tell,  in  burning  words,  thy  tale  of  wrong 

To  the  brave  hearts  that  midst  the  hamlets  glow. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  163 

God  shall  be  with  thee,  my  beloved  !    Away ! 
Bless  but  thy  child,  and  leave  me — I  can  pray  I  " 

He  sprang  up,  like  a  warrior  youth  awaking 

To  clarion  sounds  upon  the  ringing  air; 
He  caught  her  to  hrs  breast,  while  proud  tears  breaking 

From  his  dark  eyes  fell  o'er  her  braided  hair ; 
And  "  worthy  art  thou,"  was  his  joyous  cry, 
That  man  for  thee  should  gird  himself  to  die  I 

"  My  bride,  my  wife,  the  mother  of  my  child  ! 

Now  shall  thy  name  be  armor  to  my  heart : 
And  this  our  land,  by  chains  no  more  defiled, 

Be  taught  of  thee  to  choose  the  better  part ! 
I  go — thy  spirit  on  my  words  shall  dwell : 
Thy  gentle  voice  shall  stir  the  Alps.     Farewell ! " 

And  thus  they  parted,  by  the  quiet  lake, 

In  the  clear  starlight :  he  the  strength  to  rouse 

Of  the  free  hills  ;  she,  thoughtful  for  his  sake, 
To  rock  her  child  beneath  the  whispering  boughs, 

Singing  its  blue  half-curtained  eyes  to  sleep 

With  a  kw  hvmn,  amidst  the  stillness  deep. 


PROPERZIA  ROSSI. 

tlVoperzia  Rossi,  a  celebrated  female  sculptor  of  Bologna,  possessed  also  of  talents  for  poetry 
and  music,  died  in  consequence  of  an  unrequited  attachment.  A  painting,  by  Ducis,  repre- 
sents her  showing  her  last  work,  a  basso-relievo  of  Anadne,  to  a  Roman  knight,  the  object  ot 
her  affection,  who  regards  it  with  indifference.] 

'Tell  me  no  more,  no  more 

lit 
ss 

>bind 

One  true  heart  unto  me,  whereon  my  own 
Might  find  a  resting-place,  a  home  for  all 
Its  burden  of  affections?     I  depart, 
Unknown,  though  Fame  goes  with  me  ;  I  must  leave 
The  earth  unknown.    Yet  it  may  be  that  death 
Shall  give  my  name  a  power  to  win  such  tears 
As  would  have  made  life  precious." 

I. 

ONE  dream  of  passion  and  of  beauty  more  ! 

And  in  its  bright  fulfilment  let  me  pour 

My  soul  away  I     Let  earth  retrain  a  trace 

Of  that  which  lit  my  being,  though  its  race 

Might  have  bee    lo'ftier  far.     Yet  one  more  dreamt 

From  my  deep  spirit  one  victorious  gleam 

Ere  I  depart  !     For  thee  alone,  for  thee ! 

May  this  last  work,  this  farewell  triumph  be — 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN*. 


Thou,  loved  so  vainly !  I  would  have  enshrined 

Something  immortal  of  my  heart  and  mind, 

That  yet  may  speak  to  thee  when  I  am  gone, 

Shaking  thine  inmost  bosom  with  a  tone 

Of  lost  affection, — something  that  may  prove 

What  she  hath  been,  whose  melancholy  love 

On  thee  was  lavished  ;  silent  pang  and  tear, 

And  fervent  song  that  gushed  when  none  were  near,    . 

And  dream  by  night,  and  weary  thought  by  day, 

Stealing  the  brightness  from  her  life  away — 

While  thou Awake  !  not  yet  within  me  die  ! 

Under  the  burden  and  the  agony 

Of  this  vain  tenderness — my  spirit,  wake  ! 

Even  for  thy  sorrowful  affection's  sake, 

Live  !  in  thy  work  breathe  out ! — that  he  may  yet, 

Feeling  sad  mastery  there,  perchance  regret 

Thine  unrequited  gift. 

II. 

It  comes  !  the  power 

Within  me  born  flows  back — my  fruitless  dower 
That  could  not  win  me  love.     Yet  once  again 
I  greet  it  proudly,  with  its  rushing  train 
Of  glorious  images :  they  throng — they  press— 
A  sudden  joy  lights  up  my  loneliness — 
I  shall  not  perish  all ! 

The  bright  work  grows 
Beneath  my  hand,  unfolded  as  a  rose, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  to  beauty  ;  line  by  line, 
I  fix  my  thought,  heart,  soul,  to  burn,  to  shine, 
Through  the  pale  marble's  veins.     It  grows! — and  now 
I  give  my  own  life's  history  to  thy  brow, 
Forsaken  Ariadne  ! — thou  shall  wear 
My  form,  my  lineaments  ;  but  oh !  more  fair, 
Touched  into  lovelier  being  by  the  glow 

Which  in  me  dwells,  as  by  the  summer  light 
All  things  are  glorified.     From  thee  my  woe 

Shall  yet  look  beautiful  to  meet  his  sight, 
When  I  am  passed  away.     Thou  art  the  mould, 
Wherein  I  pour  the  fervent  thoughts,  the  untold, 
The  self-consuming  !     Speak  to  him  of  me, 
Thou,  the  deserted  by  the  lonely  sea, 
With  the  soft  sadness  of  thine  earnest  eye — 
Speak  to  him,  lorn  one  !  deeply,  mournfully, 
Of  all  my  love  and  grief  !     Oh  !  could  I  throw 
Into  thy  frame  a  voice — a  sweet,  and  low, 
And  thrilling  voice  of  song  !  when  he  came  nigh, 
To  send  the  passion  of  its  melody 
Through  his  pierced  bosom — on  its  tones  to  bear 
My  life's  deep  feeling  as  the  southern  air 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


Wafts  the  faint  myrtle's  breath — to  rise,  to  swell, 

To  sink  away  in  accents  of  farewell, 

Winning  but  one,  one  gush  of  tears,  whose  flow 

Surely  my  parted  spirit  yet  might  know, 

If  love  be  strong  as  death  ! 

in. 

Now  fair  thou  art, 

Thou  form,  whose  life  is  of  my  burning  heart ! 
Yet  all  the  vision  that  within  me  wrought, 

I  cannot  make  thee.    Oh  I  I  might  have  given 
Birth  to  creations  of  far  nobler  thought ; 

I  might  have  kindled,  with  the  fire  of  heaven, 
Things  not  of  such  as  die  !     But  I  have  been 
Too  much  alone  !     A  heart  whereon  to  lean, 
With  all  these  deep  affections  that  o'erflow 
My  aching  soul,  and  find  no  shore  below  , 
An  eye  to  be  my  star  ;  a  voice  to  bring 
Hope  o'er  my  path  like  sounds  that  breathe  of  spring 
These  are  denied  me — dreamt  of  still  in  vain. 
Therefore  my  brief  aspirings  from  the  chain 
Are  ever  but  as  some  wild  fitful  song, 
Rising  triumphantly,  to  die  ere  long 
In  dirge-like  echoes. 

IV. 

Yet  the  world  will  see 
Little  of  this,  my  parting  work  1  in  thee. 

Thou  shalt  have  fame  !    Oh,  mockery  !  give  the  reed 
From  storms  a  shelter — give  the  drooping  vine 
Something  round  which  its  tendrils  may  entwine — 

Give  the  parched  flower  a  rain-drop,  and  the  meed 
Of  love's  kind  words  to  woman  !     Worthless  fame  ! 
That  in  his  bosom  wins  not  for  my  name 
The  abiding  place  it  asked  !     Yet  how  my  heart, 
In  its  own  fairy  world  of  song  and  art 
Once  beat  for  praise  !     Are  those  high  longings  o'er  ? 
That  which  I  have  been  can  I  be  no  more  ? 
Never  !  oh,  never  more  !  though  still  thy  sky 
Be  blue  as  then,  my  glorious  Italy  ! 
And  though  the  music,  whose  rich  breathings  fill 
Thin  air  with  soul,  be  wandering  past  me  still  ; 
And  though  the  mantle  of  thy  sunlight  streams 
Unchanged  on  forms,  instinct  with  poet  dreams. 
Never  !  oh,  never  more  !     Where'er  I  move, 
The  shadow  of  this  broken  hearted  love 
Is  on  me  and  around !     Too  well  they  know 

Whose  life  is  all  within,  too  soon  and  well, 
When  there  the  blight  hath  settled  !  But  I  go 

Under  the  silent  wings  of  peace  to  dwell  ; 
From  the  slow  .wasting,  from  the  lonely  pain. 
The  inward  burning  of  those  words — "  in  vain" 


166 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


Seared  on  the  heart — I  go.     'Twill  soon  be  past ! 
Sunshine  and  song,  and  bright  Italian  heaven, 

And  thou,  oh !  th'ou,  on  whom  my  spirit  cast 
Unvalued  wealth — who  knowest  not  what  was  given 
In  that  devotedness — the  sad,  and  deep, 
And  unrepaid — farewell !     If  I  could  weep 
Once,  only  once,  beloved  one !  on  thy  breast, 
Pouring  my  heart  forth  ere  I  sink  to  rest  I 
But  that  were  happiness  ! — and  unto  me 
Earth's  gift  is  fame.     Yet  I  was  formed  to  be 
So  richly  blessed  !     With  thee  to  watch  the  sky, 
Speaking  not,  feeling  but  that  thou  wert  nigh ; 
With  thee  to  listen,  while  the  tones  of  song 
Swept  even  as  part  of  our  sweet  air  along — 
To  listen  silently  ;  with  thee  to  gaze 
On  forms,  the  deified  of  olden  days — 
This  had  been  joy  enough  ;  and  hour  by  hour, 
From  its  glad  well-springs  drinking  life  and  power, 
How  had  my  spirit  soared,  and  made  its  fame 

A  glory  for  thy  brow  !     Dreams,  dreams  ! — the  fire 
Burns  faint  within  me.     Yet  I  leave  my  name — 

,As  a  deep  thrill  may  linger  on  the  lyre 
When  its  full  chords  are  hushed — awhile  to  live, 
And  one  day  haply  in  thy  heart  revive 
Sad  thoughts  of  me.     I  leave  it,  with  a  sound, 
A  spell  o'er  memory,  mournfully  profound  ; 
I  leave  it  on  my  country's  air  to  dwell — 
Say  proudly  yet — "  'Twos  hers  who  loved  me  well!9 ' 


GERTRUDE;  OR,  FIDELITY  TILL  DEATH. 

[The  Baron  Von  tier  Wart,  accused —though  it  is  believed  unjustly— as  an  accomplice  in  the  as- 
sassination of  the  Emperor  Albert,  was  bound  alive  on  the  wheel,  and  attended  by  his  wife 
Gertrude,  throughout  his  last  agonizing  .hours,  with  the  most  heroic  devotedness.  Her  own 
sufferings,  with  those  of  her  unfortunate  husband,  are  most  affectingly  described  in  a  letter 
which  she  afterwards  addressed  to  a  female  friend,  and  which  was  published  s>  me  years  ago 
•t  Haarlem,  in  a  book  entitled  Gertrude  l*'on  der  Wart ;  or,  Fidelity  until  DtiitA.] 

"  Dark  lowers  our  fate, 
And  terrible  the  storm  that  gathers  o'er  us  ; 
But  nothing,  till  that  latest  agony 
Which  serves  thee  from  nature,  shall  unloose 
This  fixed  and  sacred  hold.     In  thy  dark  prison-house, 
In  the  terrific  face  of  armed  law, 
Yea,  on  the  scaffold,  if  it  needs  must  be, 
I  never  will  forsake  thee." — JOANNA  HAILI.IB. 


HER  hands  were  clasped,  her  dark  eyes 
raised, 

The  breeze  threw  back  her  hair ; 
Up  to  the  fearful  wheel  she  gazed — 

All  that  she  loved  was  there. 


The  night  was   round  her  clear  and 
cold, 

The  holy  heaven  above, 
Its  pale  stars  watching  to  behold 

The  might  of  earthly  love. 


"  She  spread  her  mantle  o'er  his  breast, 
She  bathed  his  lips  with  dew."    Page  167. 


KECOXDS  OF  WOMAN. 


"And  bid  me  not  depart,"  she  cried; 

•  My  Rudolph,  say  not  so  ! 
1'nis  is  no  time  to  quit  thy  side — 

Peace  !  peace  !   I  cannot  go. 
Hath  the  world  aught  for  me  to  fear, 

When  death  is  on  thy  brow  ? 
die  world  !  what  means  it?     Mine  is 
here — 

I  will  not  leave  thee  now. 

'  I  have  been  with  thee  in  thine  hour 

Of  glory  and  of  bliss  ; 
i  )oubt  not  its  memory's  living  power 

To  strengthen  me  through  this! 
Aiid    thou,  mine   honored    love    and 
true, 

Bear  on,  bear  nobly  on  ! 
We  have  the  blessed  heaven  in  view, 

Whose  rest  shall  soon  be  won." 

And  were  not  these  high  words  to  flow 

From  woman's  breaking  heart  ? 
Through  all  that  night  of  bitterest  woe 

She  bore  her  lofty  part ; 
But  oh  !  with  such  a  glazing  eye, 

With  such  a  curdling  cheek — 
Love,  I.ove  !  of  mortal  agony 

Thou,  only  tttou%  shouldst  speak  \ 


The  wind  rose  high — but  with  it  rose 

Her  voice,  that  he  might  hear  : — 
Perchance  that  dark  hour  brought  re- 
pose 

To  happy  bosoms  near ; 
While  she  sat  striving  with  despair 

Beside  his  tortured  form, 
And  pouring  her  deep  soul  in  prayei 

Forth  on  the  rushing  storm. 

She  wiped  the  death-damps  from  his 
brow 

With  her  pale  hands  and  soft, 
Whose  touch  upon  the  lute-chords  low 

Had  stilled  his  heart  so  oft. 
She  spread  her  mantle  o'er  his  breast, 

She  bathed  his  lips  with  dew, 
And  on  his  cheeks  such  kisses  pressed 

As  hope  and  joy  ne'er  knew. 

Oh !  lovely  are  ye,  Love  and  Faith, 

Enduring  to  the  last ! 
She  had  her  meed — one  smile  in  death — 

And  his  worn  spirit  passed  ! 
While  even  as  o'er  a  martyr's  grave 

She  Hnelt  on  that  sad  spot, 
And,  weeping,  blessed   the  God  who 
gave 

Strength  to  forsake  it  not  I 


IMELDA. 

"  Sometimes 

The  young  forgot  the  lessons  they  had  learnt, 
And  loved  when  they  should  hate— like  thee,  Imelda! 

Italy,  a  Pten. 

"  Passa  la  bella  Donna,  e  par  che  dorma." — TASSO. 

WE  have  the  myrtle's  breath  around  us  here, 

Amidst  the  fallen  pillars:  this  hath  been 
Some  Naiad's  fane  of  old.     How  bnghtly  clear, 

Flinging  a  vein  of  silver  o'er  the  scene, 
Up  through  the  shadowy  grass  the  fountain  wells, 

And  music  with  it,  gushing  from  beneath 
The  ivied  altar  !     That  sweet  murmur  tells 

The  rich  wild  flowers  no  tale  of  woe  or  death ; 


I6S  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


Yet  once  the  wave  was  darkened,  and  a  stain 
Lay  deep,  and  heavy  drops — but  not  of  rain — 
On  the  dim  viol  ts  by  Its  marble  bed, 
And  the  pale  shining  water-lily's  head. 

Sad  is  that  1  gcnd's  truth. — A  fair  girl  met 

On;'  whom  she  loved,  by  this  lone  temple's  spring 
Just  as  the  sun  behind  the  pine-grove  set, 

And  eve's  low  voice  in  whispers  woke,  to  bring 
All  wanderers  home.     They  stood,  that  gentle  pair 

With  the  blue  heaven  of  Italy  above, 
And  citron-odors  dying  on  the  air, 
And  light  leaves  trembling  round,  and  early  love 
Deep  in  each  breast.     What  recked  their  souls  of  strife 
Between  their  fathers  !     Unto  them  young  life 
Spread  out  the  treasures  of  its  vernal  years  ; 
And  if  they  wept,  they  wept  far  other  tears 
Than  the  cold  world  brings  forth.     They  stood  that  hour 
Speaking  of  hope  ;  while  tree,  and  fount,  and  flower, 
And  star,  just  gleaming  through  the  cypress  boughs, 
Seemed  holy  things,  as  records  of  their  vows. 

But  change  came  o'er  the  scene.     A  hurrying  tread 

Broke  on  the  whispery  shades.     Imelda  knew 
The  footstep  of  her  brother's  wrath,  and  fled 

Up  where  the  cedars  make  yon  avenue 
Dim  with  green  twilight :  pausing  there,  she  caught— 
Was  it  the  clash  of  sworcls  ?    A  swift  dark  thought 

Struck  down  her  lip's  rich  crimson  as  it  passed, 
And  from  her  eye  the  sunny  sparkle  took 
One  moment  with  its  fearfulness,  and  shook 

Her  slight  frame  fiercely,  as  a  stormy  blast 
Might  rock  the  rose.    Once  more,  and  yet  once  more, 
She  stilled  her  heart  .to  listen — all  was  o'er  ; 
Sweet  summer  winds  alone  were  heard  to  sigh, 
Bearing  the  nightingale's  deep  spirit  by 

That  night  Imelda's  voice  was  in  the  song — 
Lovely  it  floated  through  the  festive  throng 
Peopling  her  father's  halls     That  fatal  night 
Her  eye  looked  starry  in  its  dazzling  light, 
And  her  cheek  glowed  with  beauty's  flushing  dyes, 
Like  a  rich  cloud  of  eve  in  southern  skies — 
A  burning,  ruby  cloud.     There  were,  whose  gaze 
Followed  h'.r  form  beneath  the  clear  lamp's  blaze, 
And  marvelled  at  its  radiance.     But  a  few 
Beheld  the  brightness  of  that  feverish  hue 
With  something  of  dim  fear  ;  and  in  that  glance 

Found  strange  and  sudden  tokens  of  unrest, 
Startling  to  meet  amidst  the  mazy  dance, 

\Vhere  thought,  if  present,  an  unbidden  guest, 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  169 


Comes  not  unmasked.     Howe'er  this  were,  the  time 

Sped  as  it  speeds  with  joy,  and  grief,  and  crime 

Alike :  and  when  the  banquet's  hall  was  left 

Unto  its  garlands  of  their  bloom  bereft ; 

When  trembling  stars  looked  silvery  in  their  wane, 

And  heavy  flowers  yet  slumbered,  once  again 

There  stole  a  footstep,  fleet,  light,  and  lone, 

Through  the  dim  cedar  shade — the  step  of  one' 

That  started  at  a  leaf,  of  one  that  fled, 

Of  one  that  panted  with  some  secret  dread. 

What  did  Imelda  there  ?     She  sought  the  scene 

Where  love  so  late  with  youth  and  hope  had  been. 

Bodings  were  on  her  soul ;  a  shuddering  thrill 

Ran  through  each  vein,  when  first  the  Naiad's  rill 

Met  her  with  melody — sweet  sounds  and  low: 

IVe  hear  them  yet,  they  live  along  its  flow — 

Her  voice  is  music  lost !     The  fountain-side 

She  gained — the  wave  flashed  forth — 'twas  darkly  dyed 

Even  as  from  warrior-hearts ;  and  on  its  edge, 

Amidst  the  fern,  and  flowers,  and  moss-tufts  deep, 
There  lay,  as  lulled  by  stream  and  rustling  sedge, 

A  youth,  a  graceful  youth.     "  Oh  !  dost  thou  sleep  ? 
Azzo  !  "  she  cried,  "  my  Azzo  !  is  this  rest  ?  " 
But  then  her  low  tones  faltered : — •"  On  thy  breast 
Is  the  stain — yes,  'tis  blood  !     And  that  cold  cheek — 
That  moveless  lip  : — thou  dost  not  slumber  ? — speak, 
Speak,  Azzo,  my  beloved  !     No  sound — no  breath — 
What  hath  come  thus  between  our  spirits?     Death  ! 
Death  ? — I  but  dream — I  dream  !  "     And  there  she  stood, 
A  faint  fair  trembler,  gazing  first  on  blood, 
With  her  fair  arm  around  yon  cypress  thrown, 
Her  form  sustained  by  that  dark  stem  alone, 
And  fading  fast,  like  spell-struck  maid  of  old, 
Into  white  waves  dissolving,  clear  and  cold  ; 
When  from  the  grass  her  dimmed  eye  caught  a  gleam — 
'Twas  where  a  sword  lay  shivered  by  the  stream — 
Her  brother's  sword  ! — she  knew  it ;  and  she  knew 
'Twas  with  a  venomed  point  that  weapon  slew  ! 
Woe  for  young  love  !     But  love  is  strong.     There  came 
Strength  upon  woman's  fragile  heart  and  frame; 
There  came  swift  courage  !     On  the  dewy  ground 
She  knelt,  with  all  her  dark  hair  floating  round 
Like  a  long  silken  stole  ;  she  knelt,  and  pressed 
Her  lips  of  glowing  life  to  Azzo's  breast, 
Drawing  the  poison  forth.     A  strange,  sad  sight ! 
Pale  death,  and  fearless  love,  and  solemn  night ! 
— So  the  moon  saw  them  last. 

The  morn  came  singing 

Through  the  green  forests  of  the  Apennines, 
With  all  her  joyous  birds  their  free  flight  winging, 

And  steps  and  voices  out  amongst  the  vines. 


170  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


What  found  that  dayspring  here  ?    Two  fair  forms  laid 

Like  sculptured  sleepers ;  from  the  myrtle  shade 

Casting  a  gleam  of  beauty  o'er  the  wave, 

Still,  mournful,  sweet.     Were  such  things  for  the  grave  ? 

Could  it  be  so  indeed  ?     That  radiant  girl, 

Decked  as  for  bridal  hours ! — long  braids  of  pearl 

Amidst  her  shadowy  locks  were  faintly  shining, 

As  tears  might  shine,  with  melancholy  light ; 
And  there  was  gold  her  slender  waist  entwining; 

And  her  pale  graceful  arms — how  sadly  bright! 
And  fiery  gems  upon  her  breast  were  lying, 
And  round  her  marble  brow  red  roses  dying. 
But  she  died  first — the  violet's  hue  had  spread 

O'er  her  sweet  eyelids  with  repose  oppressed ; 
She  had  bowed  heavily  her  gentle  head, 

And  on  the  youth's  hushed  bosom  sunk  to  rest. 
So  slept  they  well ! — the  poison's  work  was  done  ! 
Love  with  true  heart  had  striven — but  Death  had  won. 


EDITH. 

A  TALE  OF  THE  WOODS.1 

"  Du  Heilige  !  rufe  dein  Kind  zuriick! 
Ich  habe  genossen  das  irdische  Cluck, 
Ich  habe  gelebt  und  geliebet-" — WALLBNSTBW. 

THE  woods — oh  !  solemn  are  the  boundless  woods 

Of  the  great  western  world  when  day  declines, 
And  louder  sounds  the  roll  of  distant  floods, 

More  deep  the  rustling  of  the  ancient  pines. 
When  dimness  gathers  on  the  stilly  air, 

And  mystery  seems  o'er  every  leaf  to  brood, 
Awful  it  is  for  human  heart  to  bear 

The  might  and  burden  of  the  solitude  ! 
Yet,  in  that  hour,  midst  those  green  wastes,  there  sate 
One  young  and  fair  ;  and  oh !  how  desolate  ! 
But  undismayed — while  sank  the  crimson  light, 
And  the  high  cedars  darkened  with  the  night. 
Alone  she  sate  ;  though  many  lay  around, 
They,  pale  and  silent  on  the  bloody  ground, 
Were  severed  from  her  need  and  from  her  woe, 

Far  as  death  severs  life.     O'er  that  wild  spot 
Combat  had  raged,  and  brought  the  valiant  low, 

And  left  them,  with  the  history  of  their  lot, 
Unto  the  forest  oaks — a  fearful  scene 
For  her  whose  home  of  other  days  had  been 

1  Founded  on  incidents  related  in  an  American  work,  Sketches  of  Connecticut. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  171 


Midst  the  fair  halls  of  England  1     But  the  love 

Which  filled  her  soul  was  strong  to  cast  out  fear  ; 
And  by  its  might  upborne  all  else  above, 

She  shrank  not — marked  not  that  the  dead  were  near 
Of  him  alone  she  thought,  whose  languid  head 

Faintly  upon  her  wedded  bosom  fell ; 
Memory  of  aught  but  him  on  earth  was  fled, 

While  heavily  she  felt  his  life-blood  well 
Fast  o'er  her  garments  forth,  and  vainly  bound 
With  her  torn  robe  and  hair  the  streaming  woun.'  - 
Yet  hoped,  still  hoped  I     Oh  !  from  such  hope  Ix.w  long 

Affection  wooes  the  whispers  that  deceive, 
Even  when  the  pressure  of  dismay  grows  strong !> 

And  we,  that  weep,  watch,  tremble,  ne'er  believe 
The  blow  indeed  can  fall.     So  bowed  she  there 
Over  the  dying,  while  unconscious  prayer 
Filled  all  her  soul.     Now  poured  the  moonlight  down, 
Veining  the  pine-stems  through  the  foliage  brown, 
And  fire-flies,  kindling  up  the  leafy  place, 
Cast  fitful  radiance  o'er  the  warrior's  face, 
Whereby  she  caught  its  changes.     To  her  eye, 

The  eye  that  faded  looked  through  gathering  haze, 
Whence  love,  o'ermastering  mortal  agony, 

Lifted  a  long,  deep,  melancholy  gaze, 
When  voice  was  not ;  that  fond,  sad  meaning  passed— 
She  knew  the  fulness  of  her  woe  at  last ! 
One  shriek  the  forests  heard — arid  mute  she  lay 
And  cold,  yet  clasping  still  the  precious  clay 
To  her  scarce-heaving  breast.     O  Love  and  Death ! 

Ye  have  sad  meetings  on  this  changeful  earth, 
Many  and  sad ! — but  airs  of  heavenly  breath 

Shall  melt  the  links  which  bind  you,  for  your  birth 
Is  far  apart. 

Now  light  of  richer  hue 

Than  the  moon  sheds,  came  flushing  mist  and  dew  ; 
The  pines  grew  red  with  morning ;  fresh  winds  played  ; 
Bright-colored  birds  with  splendor  crossed  the  shade, 
Flitting  on  flower-like  wings  ;  glad  murmurs  broke 

From  reed,  and  spray,  and  leaf — the  living  strings 
Of  earth's  ^iolian  lyre,  whose  music  woke 

Into  young  life  and  joy  all  happy  things. 
And  she,  too,  woke  from  that  long  dreamless  trance, 
The  widowed  Edith:  fearfully  her  glance 
Fell,  as  in  doubt,  on  faces  dark  and  strange, 
And  dusky  forms.     A  sudden  sense  of  change 
Flashed  o'er  her  spirit,  even  ere  memory  swept 
The  tide  of  anguish  back  with  thoughts  that  slept ; 
Yet  half  instinctively  she  rose,  and  spread 
Her  arms,  as  'twere  for  something  lost  or  fled, 
Then  faintly  sank  again.     The  forest-bough, 
With  all  its  whispers,  waved  not  o'er  her  now. 


172  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

Where  was  she  ?     Midst  the  people  of  the  wild, 

By  the  red  hunter's  fire  •  an  aged  chief, 
Whose  home  looked  sad — for  therein  played  no  cb".d — 

Had  borne  her,  in  the  stillness  of  her  grief, 
To  that  lone  cabin  of  the  woods;  and  there, 
Won  by  a  form  so  desolately  fair, 

Or  touched  with  thoughts  from  some  past  sorrow  s,  ./'ing, 
O'er  her  low  couch  an  Indian  matron  hung  ; 
While  in  grave  silence,  yet  with  earnest  eye, 
The  ancient  warrior  of  the  waste  stood  by, 
Bending  in  watchfulness  his  proud  gray  head, 
And  leaning  on  his  bow. 

And  life  returned, 
Life,  but  with  all  its  memories  of  the  dead, 

To  Edith's  heart ;  and  well  the  sufferer  learned 
Her  task  of  meek  endurance — well  she  wore 
The  chastened  grief  that  humbly  can  adore 
Midst  blinding  tears.     But  unto  that  old  pair, 
Even  as  a  breath  of  spring's  awakening  air, 
Her  presence  was  ;  or  as  a  sweet  wild  tune 
Bringing  back  tender  thoughts,  which  all  too  soon 
Depart  with  childhood.     Sadly  they  had  seen 
A  daughter  to  the  land  of  spirits  go ; 
And  ever  from  that  time  her  fading  mien, 

And  voice,  like  winds  of  summer,  soft  and  low, 
Had  haunted  their  dim  years  :  but  Edith's  face 
Now  looked  in  holy  sweetness  from  her  place, 
And  they  again  seemed  parents.     Oh  !  the  joy, 
The  rich  deep  blessedness — though  earth's  alloy, 
Fear,  that  still  bodes,  be  there — of  pouring  fortli 
The  heart's  whole  power  of  love,  its  wealth  and  worth 
Of  strong  affection,  in  one  healthful  flow, 
On  something  all  its  own  !  that  kindly  glow, 
Which  to  shut  inward  is  consuming  pain, 
Gives  the  glad  soul  its  flowering  time  again, 
When,  like  the  sunshine,  freed.     And  gentle  cares 
The  adopted  Edith  meekly  gave  for  theirs 
Who  loved  her  thus.     Her  spirit  dwelt  the  while 
With  the  departed,  and  her  patient  smile 
Spoke  of  farewells  to  earth ;  yet  still  she  prayed 
E'en  o'er  her  soldier's  lowly  grave,  for  aid 
One  purpose  to  fulfil,  to  leave  one  trace 
Brightly  recording  that  her  dwelling-place 
Had  been  among  the  wilds ;  for  well  she  knew 
The  secret  whisper  of  her  bosom  true, 
Which  warned  her  hence. 

And  now,  by  many  a  word 

Linked  unto  moments  when  the  heart  was  stirred — 
By  the  sweet  mournfulness  of  many  a  hymn, 
Sung  when  the  woods  at  eve  grew  hushed  and  dim — 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  173 

By  the  persuasion  of  her  fervent  eye, 

All  eloquent  with  childlike  piety— 

By  the  still  beauty  of  her  life  she  strove 

To  win  for  heaven,  and  heavenrborn  truth,  the  love 

Poured  out  on  her  so  freely.     Nor  in  vain 

Was  that  soft-breathing  influence  to  enchain 

The  soul  in  gentle  bonds  ;  by  slow  degrees 

Light  followed  on,  as  when  a  summer  breeze 

Parts  the  deep  masses  of  the  forest  shade, 

And  lets  the  sunbeam  through.     Her  voice  was  made 

Even  such  a  breeze  ;  and  she,  a  lowly  guide, 

By  faith  and  sorrow  raised  and  purified, 

So  to  the  Cross  her  Indian  fosterers  led, 

Until  their  prayers  were  one.     When  morning  spread 

O'er  the  blue  lake,  and  when  the  sunset's  glow 

Touched  into  golden  bronze  the  cypress  bough, 

And  when  the  quiet  of  the  Sabbath  time 

Sank  on  her  heart,  though  no  melodious  chime 

Wakened  the  wilderness,  their  prayers  were  one. 

Now  might  she  pass  in  hope — her  work  was  done  I 

And  she  was  passing  from  the  woods  away — 

The  broken  flower  of  England  might  not  stay 

Amidst  those  alien  shades.     Her  eye  was  bright 

Even  yet  with  something  of  a  starry  light, 

But  her  form  wasted,  and  her  fair  young  cheek 

Wore  oft  and  patiently  a  fatal  streak, 

A  rose  whose  root  was  death.     The  parting  sigh 

Of  autumn  through  the  forests  had  gone  by, 

And  the  rich  maple  o'er  her  wanderings  lone 

Its  crimson  leaves  in  many  a  shower  had  strown, 

Flushing  the  air;  and  winter's  blast  had  been 

Amidst  the  pines ;  and  now  a  softer  green 

Fringed  their  dark  boughs:  for  spring  again  had  come, 

The  sunny  spring  !  but  Edith  to  her  home 

Was  journeying  fast.     Alas!  we  think  it  sad 

To  part  with  life  when  all  the  earth  looks  glad 

In  her  young  lovely  things — when  voices  break 

Into  sweet  sounds,  and  leaves  and  blossoms  wake  : 

Is  it  not  brighter,  then,  in  that  far  clime 

Where  graves  are  not,  nor  blights  of  changeful  time, 

If  here  such  glory  dwell  with  passing  blooms, 

Such  golden  sunshine  rest  around  the  tombs  ? 

So  thought  the  dying  one.     'Twas  early  day, 

And  sounds  and  odors,  with  the  breezes'  play, 

Whispering  of  spring-time,  through  the  cabin  door, 

Unto  her  couch  life's  farewell  sweetness  bore. 

Then  with  a  look  where  all  her  hope  awoke, 

"  My  father  !  '' — to  the  gray-haired  chief  she  spoke— 

"Knowest  thou  that  I  depart  ?  "     "  I  know,  I  know," 

He  answered  mournfully,  "that  thou  must  go 

To  thy  beloved,  my  daughter  !  "     "  Sorrow  not 


174  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

For  me,  kind  mother  !  "  with  meek  smiles  once  more 
She  murmured  in  low  tones:  "one  happy  lot 

Awaits  us,  friends  !  upon  the  better  shore1, 
For  we  have  prayed  together  in  one  trust, 

And  lifted  our  frail  spirits  from  the  dust 
To  God,  who  gave  them.     Lay  me  by  mine  own, 
*  Under  the  cedar  shade:  where  he  is  gone, 

Thither  I  go.     There  will  my  sisters  be, 
And  the  dead  parents,  lisping  at  whose  knee 
My  childhood's  prayer  was  learned — the  Saviour's  prayer 
Which  now  ye  know — and  I  shall  meet  you  there. 
Father  and  gentle  mother !  ye  have  bound 
The  bruised  reed,  and  mercy  shall  be  found 
By  Mercy's  children."     From  the  matron's  eye 
Dropped  tears,  her  sole  and  passionate  reply. 
But  Edith  felt  them  not ;  for  now  a  sleep 
Solemnly  beautiful — a  stillness  deep, 
Fell  on  her  settled  face.     Then,  sad  and  slow, 
And  mantling  up  his  stately  head  in  woe, 
"  Thou'rt  passing  hence,"  he  sang,  that  warrior  old, 
In  sounds  like  those  by  plaintive  waters  rolled. 

"Thou'rt  passing  from  the  lake's  green  side, 

And  the  hunter's  hearth  away : 
For  the  time  of  flowers,  for  the  summer's  pride, 

Daughter  !  thou  canst  not  stay. 

"  Thou'rt  journeying  to  thy  spirit's  home, 

Where  the  skies  are  ever  clear  : 
The  corn-month's  golden  hours  will  come, 

But  they  shall  not  find  thee  here. 

"And  we  shall  nibs  thy  voice,  my  bird ! 

Under  our  whispering  pine  ; 
Music  shall  midst  the  leaves  be  heard, 

But  not  a  song  like  thine. 

"  A  breeze  that  roves  o'er  stream  and  hill, 

Telling  of  winter  gone, 
Hath  such  sweet  falls — yet  caught  we  still 

A  farewell  in  its  tone. 

"But  thou,  my  bright  one  !  thou  shall  be 

Where  farewell  sounds  are  o'er ; 
Thou,  in  the  eyes  thou  lovest,  shalt  see 
No  fear  of  parting  more. 

"The  mossy  grave  thy  tears  have  wet. 

And  the  wind's  wild  moanings  by, 
Thou  with  thy  kindred  shalt  forget, 

Midst  flowers — not  such  as  die. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  17$ 


*  The  shadow  from  thy  brow  shall  melt 

The  sorrow  from  thy  strain, 
Bur  where  thine  earthly  smile  hath  dwelt 

Our  heart  shall  thirst  in  vain. 

"  Dim  will  our  cabin  be,  and  lone, 

When  thou,  its  light,  art  fled  ; 
Yet  hath  thy  step  the  pathway  shown 

Unto  the  happy  dead. 

"  And  we  will  follow  thee,  our  guide ! 

And  join  that  shining  band  ; 
Thou'rt  passing  from  the  lake's  green  side — 

Go  to  the  better  land  I "  . 

The  song  had  ceased— the  listeners  caught  no  breath  ; 
That  lovely  sleep  had  melted  into  death. 


THE  INDIAN  CITY.  * 

"  What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  sear  ? 
The  heart  s  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it." 

Childe  Harold. 


RoYAt  in  splendor  went  down  the  day 

On  the  plain  where  an  Indian  city  lay, 

With  its  crown  of  domes  o'er  the  forest  high, 

Red,  as  if  fused  in  the  burning  sky ; 

And  its  deep  groves  pierced  by  the  rays  which  made 

A  bright  stream's  way  through  each  long  arcade, 

Till  the  pillared  vaults  of  the  banian  stood 

Like  torch-lit  aisles  midst  the  solemn  wood  ; 

And  the  plantain  glittered  with  leaves  of  gold, 

As  a  tree  midst  the  genii  gardens  old, 

And  the  cypress  lifted  a  blazing  spire, 

And  the  stems  of  the  cocoas  were  shafts  of  fire. 

Many  a  white  pagoda's  gleam 

Slept  lovely  round  upon  lake  and  stream, 

Broken  alone  by  the  lotus  flowers, 

As  they  caught  the  glow  of  the  sun's  last  hours, 

Like  rosy  wine  in  their  cups,  and  shed 

Its  glory  forth  on  their  crystal  bed. 

Many  a  graceful  Hindoo  maid, 

With  the  water-vase  from  the  palmy  snacfe, 

Came  gliding  light  as  the  desert's  roe, 

Down  marble  steps,  to  the  tanks  below ; 

And  a  cool  sweet  plashing  was  ever  heard, 

As  the  molten  glass  of  the  wave  was  stirred, 


'  From  a  uk  in  Forbes's 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


And  a  murmur,  thrilling  the  scented  air, 

Told  where  the  Bramin  bowed  in  prayer. 

— There  wandered  a  noble  Moslem  boy 

Through  the  scene  of  beauty  in  breathless  joy  ? 

He  gazed  where  the  stately  city  rose, 

Like  a  pageant  of  clouds,  in  its  red  repose  ; 

He  turned  where  birds  through  the  gorgeous  gloom 

Of  the  woods  went  glancing  on  starry  plume  ; 

He  tracked  the  brink  of  the  shining  lake. 

By  the  tall  canes  feathered  in  tuft  and  brake  ; 

Till  the  path  he  chose,  in  its  mazes,  wound 

To  the  very  heart  of  the  holy  ground 

And  there  lay  the  water,  as  if  enshrined 
In  a  rocky  urn,  from  the  sun  and  wind, 
Bearing  the  hues  of  the  grove  on  high, 
Far  down  through  its  dark  still  purity. 
The  flood  beyond,  to  the  fiery  west, 
Spread  out  like  a  metal  mirror's  breast ; 
But  that  lone  bay,  in  its  dimness  deep, 
Seemed  made  for  the  swimmer's  joyous  leap, 
For  the  stag  athirst  from  the  noontide's  chase 
For  all  free  things  of  the  wild  wood's  race. 

Like  a  falcon's  glance  on  the  wide  blue  sky, 
Was  the  kindling  flash  of  the  boy's  glad  eye  ; 
Like  a  sea-bird's  flight  to  the  foaming  wave, 
From  the  shadowy  bank  was  the  bound  he  gave  j 
Dashing  the  spray-drops,  cold  and  white, 
O'er  the  glossy  leaves  in  its  young  delight, 
And  bowing  his  locks  to  the  waters  clear — 
Alas  !  he  dreamt  not  that  fate  was  near. 

His  mother  looked  from  her  tent  the  while, 

O'er  heaven  and  earth  with  a  quiet  smile : 

She,  on  her  way  unto  Mecca's  fane, 

Had  stayed  the  march  of  her  pilgrim  train, 

Calmly  to  linger  a  few  brief  hours 

In  the  Bramin  city's  glorious  bowers  ; 

For  the  pomp  of  the  for.est,  the  wave's  bright  fall, 

The  red  gold  of  sunset — she  loved  them  all. 


H. 

The  moon  rose  clear  in  the  splendor  given 

To  the  deep-blue  night  of  an  Indian  heaven  ; 

The  boy  from  the  high-arched  woods  came  back 

Oh  !  what  had  he  met  in  his  lonely  track  ? 

The  serpent's  glance  through  the  long  reeds  bright? 

The  arrowy  spring  of  the  tiger's  might  ? 


RECORDS  OF  WOMA*\. 


No  1  yet  as  one  by  a  conflict  worn, 

With  his  graceful  hair  all  soiled  and  torn, 

And  a  gloom  on  the  lids  of  his  darkened  eye, 

And  a  gash  on  his  bosom  —  he  came  to  die  ! 

He  looked  for  the  face  to  his  young  heart  sweet, 

And  found  it,  and  sank  at  his  mother's  feei. 

M  Speak  to  me  !  whence  does  the  swift  blood  run  ? 

What  hath  befallen  thee,  my  child,  my  Bon  ?  " 

Tne  mist  of  death  on  his  brow  lay  pale, 

But  his  voice  just  ingered  to  breathe  the  tale, 

Murmuring  faintly  of  wrongs  and  scorn. 

And  wounds  from  the  children  of  Brahma  borne. 

This  was  the  doom  for  a  Moslem  found 

With  a  foot  profane  on  their  holy  ground  — 

This  was  for  sullying  the  pure  waves,  free 

Unto  them  alone  —  'twas  their  god's  decree. 

A  change  came  o'er  his  wandering  look  — 

The  mother  shrieked  not  then  nor  shook  : 

Breathless  she  knelt  in  her  son's  young  blood, 

Rending  her  mantle  to  staunch  its  flood  ; 

But  it  rushed  like  a  river  which  none  may  stay, 

Bearing  a  flower  to  the  deep  away. 

That  which  our  love  to  the  earth  would  chain, 

Fearfully  striving  with  heaven  in  vain  — 

That  which  fades  from  us  while  yet  we  hold, 

Clasped  to  our  bosoms,  its  mortal  mould, 

Was  fleeting  before  her,  afar  and  fast  ; 

One  moment  —  the  soul  from  the  face  had  passed  I 

Are  there  no  words  for  that  common  woe  ? 

Ask  of  the  thousands  its  depth  that  know  ! 

The  boy  had  breathed,  in  his  dreaming  rest, 

Like  a  low-voiced  dove,  on  her  gentle  breast  ; 

He  had  stood,  when  she  sorrowed,  beside  her  knee 

Painfully  stilling  his  quick  heart's  glee  ; 

He  had  kissed  from  her  cheek  the  widow's  tears, 

With  the  loving  lip  of  his  infant  years: 

He  had  smiled  o'er  her  path  like  a  bright  spring  day— 

Now  in  his  blood  on  the  earth  he  lay  ! 

Murdtred  !  Alas  !  and  we  love  so  well 

In  a  world  where  anguish  like  this  can  dwell! 

She  bowed  down  mutely  o'er  her  dead  — 
They  that  stood  round  her  watched  in  dread; 
They  watched  —  she  knew  not  they  were  by  — 
Her  soul  sat  veiled  in  its  agony. 
On  the  silent  lips  she  pressed  no  kiss  — 
Too  sterr  was  the  grasp  of  her  pangs  for  this  : 
She  shed  no  tear,  as  her  face  bent  low 
O'er  the  shining  hair  of  the  lifeless  brow  : 


178  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


She  looked  but  into  the  half-shut  eye 
With  a  gaze  that  found  there  no  reply, 
And,  shrieking,  mantled  her  head  from  sightf 
And  fell,  struck  down  by  her  sorrow's  might. 

And  what  deep  change,  what  work  of  power, 
Was  wrought  on  her  secret  soul  that  hour? 
How  rose  the  lonely  one  ?     She  rose 
Like  a  prophetess  from  dark  repose  ! 
And  proudly  flung  from  her  face  the  veil, 
And  shook  the  hair  from  her  forehead  pale, 
And  midst  her  wondering  handmaids  stood, 
With  the  sudden  glance  of  a  dauntless  mood- 
Ay,  lifting  up  to  the  midnight  sky 
A  brow  in  its  regal  passi  in  high, 
With  a  close  and  rigid  grasp  she  pressed 
The  blood-stained  robe  to  her  heaving  breast, 
And  said — "  Not  yet,  not  yet  I  weep, 
Not  yet  my  spirit  shall  sink  or  sleep ! 
Not  till  yon  city,  in  ruins  rent, 
Be  piled  for  its  victim's  monument. 
Cover  his  dust !  bear  it  on  before  ! 
It  shall  visit  those  temple  gates  once  more." 

And  away  in  the  train  of  the  dead  she  turned, 
The  strength  of  her  step  was  the  heart  that  burned ; 
And  the  Bramin  groves  in  the  starlight  smiled, 
As  the  mother  passed  with  her  slaughter«d  child. 

lit. 

Hark  !  a  wild  sound  of  the  desert's  horn 
Through  the  woods'round  the  Indian  city  borne, 
A  peal  of  the  cymbal  and  tambour  afar — 
War  !  'tis  the  gathering  of  Moslem  war ! 
The  Bramin  looked  from  the  leaguered  towers — 
He  saw  the  wild  archer  amidst  his  bowers 
And  the  lake  that  flashed  through  the  plaintain  shade 
As  the  light  of  the  lances  along  it  played ; 
And  the  canes  that  shook  as  if  winds  were  high, 
When  the  fiery  steed  of  the  waste  swept  by  ; 
And  the  camp  as  it  lay  like  a  billowy  sea, 
Wide  round  the  sheltering  banian-tree. 

There  stood  one  tent  from  the  rest  apart — 
That  was  the  place  of  a  wounded  heart. 
Oh  I  deep  is  a  wounded  heart,  and  strong 
A  voice  that  cries  against  mighty  wrong ; 
And  full  of  death  as  a  hot  wind's  blight, 
Doth  the  ire  of  a  crushed  affection  light. 

Maimuna  from  realm  to  realm  had  passed, 
And  her  tale  had  rung  like  a  trumpet's  blast 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  179 

There  had  been  words  from  her  pale  lips  poured, 

Each  one  a  spell  to  unsheath  the  sword. 

The  Tartar  had  sprung  from  his  steed  to  hear, 

And  the  dark  chief  of  Araby  grasped  his  spear, 

Till  a  chain  of  long  lances  begirt  the  wall, 

And  a  vow  was  recorded  that  doomed  its  fall. 

Back  with  the  dust  of  her  son  she  came. 

When  her  voice  had  kindled  that  lightning  rtime; 

She  came  in  the  might  of  a  queenly  foe, 

Banner,  and  javelin,  and  bended  bow ; 

But  a  deeper  power  on  her  forehead  sate — 

There  sought  the  warrior  his  star  of  fate: 

Her  eye's  wild  flash  through  the  tented  line 

Was  hailed  as  a  spirit  and  a  sign, 

And  the  faintest  tone  from  her  lip  was  caught 

As  a  sybil's  breath  of  prophetic  thought. 

— Vain,  bitter  glory ! — the  gift  of  grief, 

That  lights  up  vengeance  to  find  relief, 

Transient  and  faithless  !  it  cannot  fill 

So  the  deep  void  of  the  heart,  nor  still 

The  yearning  left  by  a  broken  tie, 

That  haunted  fever  of  which  we  die! 

Sickening  she  turned  from  her  sad  renown, 
As  a  king  in  death  might  reject  his  crown. 
Slowly  the  strength  of  the  walls  gave  way — 
She  withered  faster  from  day  to  day; 
All  the  proud  sounds  of  that  bannered  plain, 
To  stay  the  flight  of  her  soul  were  vain ; 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  it  had  striven,  and  worn 
The  frail  dust,  ne'er  for  such  conflicts  born, 
Till  the  bars  were  rent,  and  the  hour  was  come 
For  its  fearful  rushing  through  darkness  home. 

The  bright  sun  set  in  his  pomp  and  pride, 

As  on  that  eve,  when  the  fair  boy  died  : 

She  gazed  from  her  couch,  and  a  softness  fell 

O'er  her  weary  heart  with  the  day's  farewell ; 

She  spoke,  and  her  voice,  in  its  dying  tone, 

Hnd  an  echo  of  feelings  that  long  seemed  flown. 

She  murmured  a  low  sweet  cradle-song, 

Strange  midst  the  din  of  a  warrior  throng — 

A  song  of  the  time  when  her  boy's  young  cheek 

Had  glowed  on  her  breast  in  its  slumber  meek. 

But  something  which  breathed  from  that  mournful  strain 

Sent  a  fitful  gust  o'er  her  soul  again  ; 

And  starting,  as  if  from  a  dream,  she  cried— 

"Give  him  proud  burial  at  my  side  ! 

There,  by  yon  lake,  where  the  palm-boughs  wave, 

When  the'temples  are  fallen,  make  there  our  grave." 

And  the  temples  fell,  though  the  spirit  passe 

That  stayed  not  for  victory's  voice  at  last ; 


l8o  RECORDS  OS   WOMAN. 


When  the  day  was  won  for  the  martyr  dead, 
For  the  broken  heart  and  the  bright  blood  shed. 

Through  the  gates  of  the  vanquished  the  Tartar  steed 

Bore  in  the  avenger  with  foaming  speed ; 

Free  swept  the  flame  through  the  idol  fanes-, 

And  the  streams  glowed  red,  as  from  warrior  veins  ; 

And  the  sword  of  the  Moslem,  let  loose  to  slay, 

Like  the  panther  leapt  on  its  flying  prey, 

Till  a  city  of  ruin  begirt  the  shade 

Where  the  boy  and  his  mother  at  rest  were  laid. 

Palace  and  tower  on  that  plain  were  left, 

Like  fallen  trees  by  the  lightning  cleft ; 

The  wild  vine  mantled  the  stately  square, 

The  Rajah's  throne  was  the  serpent's  lair, 

And  the  jungle  grass  o'er  the  altar  sprung — 

This  was  the  work  of  one  deep  heart  wrung ! 


THE  PEASANT  GIRL  OF  THE  RHONE 

"  There  is  but  one  place  in  the  world — 

Thither,  where  he  lies  buried  I 


There,  there  is  all  that  still  remains  of  him  : 
That  single  spot  is  the  whole  earth  to  me." 

COLERIDGE'S  Wallenstcin, 
"  Alas  J  our  young  affections  run  to  waste 
Or  water  but  the  desert." — Childe  Harold." 

THERE  went  a  warrior's  funeral  through  the  night, 

A  waving  of  tall  plumes,  a  ruddy  light 

Of  torches,  fitfully  and  wildly  thrown 

From  the  high  woods,  along  the  sweeping  Rhone, 

Far  down  the  waters.     Heavily  and  dead, 

Under  the  moaning  trees,  the  horse-hoof's  tread 

In  muffled  sounds  upon  the  greensward  fell, 

As  chieftains  passed ;  and  solemnly  the  swell 

Of  the  deep  requiem,  o'er  the  gleaming  river 

Borne  with  the  gale,  and  with  the  leaves'  low  shiver, 

Floated  and  died.     Proud  mourners  there,  yet  pale, 

Wore  man's  mute  anguish  sternly, — but  of  one, 
Oh,  who  shall  speak  ?     What  words  his  brow  unveil  ? 

A  father  following  to  the  grave  his  son  ! — 
That  is  no  grief  to  picture  !     Sad  and  slow, 
Through  the  wood-shadows,  moved  the  knightly  train, 
With  youth's  fair  form  upon  the  bier  laid  low — 
Fair  even  when  found  amidst  the  bloody  slain, 
Stretched  by  its  broken  lance.     They  reached  the  lone 

Baronial  chapel,  where  the  forest-gloom 
Fell  heaviest,  for  the  massy  boughs  had  grown 

Into  thick  archways,  as  to  vault  the  tomb. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  181 


Stately  they  trode  the  hollow-ringing  aisle, 
A  strange  deep  echo  shuddered  through  the  pile, 
Till  crested  heads  at  last  in  silence  bent 
Round  the  De  Coucis'  antique  monument, 
When  dust  to  dust  was  given  : — and  Aymer  slept 

Beneath  the  drooping  banners  of  his  line, 
Whose  broidered  folds  the  Syrian  wind  had  swept 

Proudly  and  oft  o'er  fields  of  Palestine. 
So  the  sad  rite  was  closed.     The  sculptor  gave 
Trophies,  ere  long,  to  deck  that  lordly  grave ; 
And  the  pale  image  of  a  youth,  arrayed 
As  warriors  are  for  fight,  but  calmly  laid 

In  slumber  on  his  shield.     Then  all  was  done— 
And  still  around  the  dead-     His  name  was  heard 
Perchance  when  wine-cups  flowed  and  hearts  were  stirred 

By  some  old  song,  or  tale  of  battle  won 
Told  round  the  hearth      But  in  his  father's  breast 
Manhood's  high  passions  woke  again,  and  pressed 
On  to  their  mark  ;  and  in  his  friend's  clear  eye 
There  dwelt  no  shadow  of  a  dream  gone  by ; 
And  with  the  brethren  of  his  fields,  the  feast 
\Vas  gay  as  when  the  voice  whose  sounds  had  oea»«J 
Mingled  with  theirs.     Even  thus  life's  rushing  tid« 
Bears  back  affection  from  the  grave's  dark  side  ; 
Alas  !  to  think  of  this ! — the  heart's  void  place 
Filled  up  so  soon  ! — so  like  a  summer  cloud, 
All  that  we  loved  to  pass  and  leave  no  trace  I—- 
He lay  forgotten  in  his  early  shroud. 
Forgotten  ? — not  of  all !     The  sunny  smile 
Glancing  in  play  o'er  that  proud  lip  erewhile, 
And  the  dark  locks,  whose  breezy  waving  threw 
A  gladness  round,  whene'er  their  shade  withdrew 
From  the  bright  brow  ;  and  all  the  sweetness  lying 

Within  that  eagle  eye's  jet  radiance  deep, 
And  all  the  music  with  that  young  voice  dying, 

Whose  joyous  echoes  made  the  quick  heart  leap 
As  at  a  hunter's  bugle — these  things  lived 
Still  in  one  breast,  whose  silent  love  survived 
The  pomps  of  kindred  sorrow.     Day  by  day, 
On  Aymer's  tomb  fresh  flowers  in  garlands  lay. 
Through  the  dim  fane  soft  summer  odors  breathing. 
And  all  the  pale  sepulchral  trophies  wreathing, 
And  with  a  flush  of  deeper  brilliance  glowing 
In  the  rich  light,  like  molten  rubies  flowing 
Through  storied  windows  down.     The  violet  there 

Might  speak  of  love — a  secret  love  and  lowly  ; 
And  the  rose  image  all  things  fleet  and  fair ; 

And  the  faint  passion-flower,  the  sad  and  holy, 
Tell  of  diviner  hopes.     But  whose  light  hand, 
As  for  an  altar,  wove  the  radiant  band  ? 
Whose  gentle  nurture  brought,  from  hidden  dells, 
That  gem-like  wealth  of  blossoms  and  sweet  bells. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN 


To  blush  through  every  season  ?    Blight  and  chill 
Might  touch  the  changing  woods ;  but  duly  still 
For  years  those  gorgeous  coronals  renewed, 

And  brightly  clasping  marble  spear  and  helm, 
Even  through  mid-winter,  filled  the  solitude 

With  a  strange  smile — a  glow  of  summer's  realm. 
Surely  some  fond  and  fervent  heart  was  pouring 
Its  youth's  vain  worship  on  the  dust,  adoring 
In  lone  devotedness  I 

One  spring  morn  rose, 

And  found,  within  that  tomb's  proud  shadow  laid — 
Oh  !  not  as  midst  the  vineyards,  to  repose 

From  the  fierce  noon — a  dark-haired  peasant  maid. 
Who  could  reveal  her  story  ?    That  still  face 

Had  once  been  fair  ;  for  on  the  clear  arched  brow 
And  the  curved  lip  there  lingered  yet  such  grace 

As  sculpture  gives  its  dreams ;  and  long  and  low 
The  deed  black  lashes,  o'er  the  half-shut  eye — 
For  death  was  on  its  lids — fell  mournfully. 
But  the  cold  cheek  was  sunk,  the  raven  hair 
Dimmed,  the  slight  form  all  wasted,  as  by  care. 
Whence  came  that  early  blight  ?     Her  kindred's  place 
Was  not  amidst  the  high  T)e  Couci  race  ; 
Yet  there  her  shrine  had  been  !     She  grasped  a  wreath- 
The  tomb's  last  garland  ! — This  was  love  in  death. 


INDIAN  WOMAN'S  DEATH-SONG. 


tAn  Indian  woman,  driven  to  despair  by  her  husband's  d 


**  Non,  je  ne  puis  viyre  avec  un  coeur  brisi£.     II  faut  que  je  retrouve  la  joie,  et  que  je  i 
iuz  esprils  libres  de  1'air." — Bride  of  Messina — Translated  by  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

"  Let  not  my  child  be  a  girl,  for  very  sad  is  the  life  of  a  woman." 

The  Prairit. 

DOWN  a  broad  river  of  the  western  wilds, 
Piercing  thick  forest-glooms,  a  light  canoe 
Swept  with  the  current :  fearful  was  the  speed 
Of  the  frail  bark,  as  by  a  tempest's  wing 
Borne  leaf  like  on  to  where  the  mist  of  spray 
Rose  with  the  cataract's  thunder.     Yet  within, 
Proudly,  and  dauntlessly,  and  all  alone, 
Save  that  a  babe  lay  sleeping  at  her  breast, 
A  woman  stood  !     Upon  her  Indian  brow 
Sat  a  strange  gladness,  and  her  dark  hair  waved 


RECORDS  OF  WO  MA  ft.  183 


As  if  triumphantly.     She  pressed  her  child, 
In  its  bright  slumber,  to  her  beating  heart, 
And  lifted  her  sweet  voice,  that  rose  awhile 
Above  the  sound  of  waters,  high  and  clear, 
Wafting  a  wild  proud  strain — a  song  of  death. 

"ROLL  swiftly  to  the  spirit's  land,  thou  mighty  stream  and  free  ! 
Father  of  ancient  waters,  roll !  and  bear  our  lives  with  thee  ! 
The  weary  bitd  that  storms  have  tossed  would  seek  the  sunshine's  calm. 
And  the  deer  that  hath  the  arrow's  hurt  flies  to  the  woods  of  balm. 

"  Roll  on  ! — my  warrior's  eye  hath  looked  upon  another's  face, 
And  mine  hath  faded  from  his  soul,  as  fades  a  moonbeam's  trace: 
My  shadow  comes  not  o'er  his  path,  my  whisper  to  his  dream, 
He  flings  away  the  broken  reed.     Roll  swifter  yet,  thou  stream! 

"  The  voice  that  spoke  of  other  days  is  hushed  within  his  breast, 
But  mine  its  lonely  music  haunts,  and  will  not  let  me  rest ; 
It  sings  a  low  and  mournful  song  of  gladness  that  is  gone — 
I  cannot  live  without  that  light.     Father  of  waves  !  roll  on ! 

"  Will  he  not  miss  the  bounding  step  that  met  him  from  the  chase  ? 
The  heart  of  love  that  made  his  home  an  ever-sunny  place? 
The  hand  that  spread  the  hunter's  board,  and  decked  his  couch  of  yore  ?- 
He  will  not !     Roll,  dark  foaming  stream,  on  to  the  better  shore  J 

*'  Some  blessed  fount  amidst  the  woods  of  that  bright  land  must  flow, 
Whose  waters  from  my  soul  may  lave  the  memory  of  this  woe ; 
Some  gentle  wind  must  whisper  there,  whose  breath  may  waft  away 
The  burden  of  the  heavy  night,  the  sadness  of  the  day. 

"  And  thou,  my  babe  !  though  born,  like  me,  for  woman's  weary  lot, 
Smile  ! — to  that  wasting  of  the  heart,  my  own !  I  leave  thee  not ; 
Too  bright  a  thing  art  thou  to  pine  in  aching  love  away — 
Thy  mother  bears  thee  far,  young  fawn  1  from  sorrow  and  decay. 

1  She  bears  thee  to  the  glorious  bowers  where  none  are  heard  to  weep, 
And  where  the  unkind  one  hath  no  power  again  to  trouble  sleep  ; 
And  where  the  soul  shall  find  its  youth,  as  wakening  from  a  dream : 
One  moment,  and  that  realm  is  ours.    On,  on,  dark  rolling  stream  1" 


184  KECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

JOAN  OF  ARC  IN  RHEIMS. 

f"  Jeanne  d'Arc  avail  eula  joie  de  voir  a  Chalons  quelquas  amisde  son  enfance.  Une  joie  plus 
ineffable  encore  I'attendait  a  Rhenns,  au  sein  de  son  triomphe  :  Jacques  d'Arc,  son  pere,  y 
se  trouva,  aussitot  que  de  troupes  de  Charles  VII.  y  furent  entries  ;  etcomme  les  deux  freres 
de  notre  heroine  1'avaient  accompagnee,  elle  se  vit  pour  un  instant  au  milieu  de  sa  faaiiJH 
daiis  les  bras  d'un  pere  vertueux." — Yie  de  Jeanne  a' Arc.} 

"Thou  hast  a  charmed  cup,  O  Fame! 

A  draught  that  mantles  high, 
And  seems  to  lift  this  earth-born  frame 

Above  mortality : 
Away !  to  me — a  woman — bring 
Sweet  waters  from  affection's  spring ! 

THAT  was  a  joyous  day  in  Rheims  of  old, 
When  peal  on  peal  of  mighty  music  rolled 
Forth  from  her  thronged  cathedral ;  while  around, 
A  multitude,  whose  billows  made  no  sound, 
Chained  to  a  hush  of  wonder,  though  elate 
With  victory,  listened  at  their  temple's  gate. 
And  what  was  done  within  ?     Within,  the  light, 

Through  the  rich  gloom  of  pictured  windows  flowing, 
Tinged  with  soft  awfulness  a  stately  sight — 

The  chivalry  of  France  their  proud  heads  bowing 
In  martial  vassalage  !     While  midst  that  ring, 
And  shadowed  by  ancestral  tombs,  a  king 
Received  his  birthright's  crown.     For  this,  the  hymn 

Swelled  out  like  rushing  waters,  and  the  day 
With  the  sweet  censer's  misty  breath  grew  dim, 

As  through  long  aisles  it  floated  o'er  the  array 
Of  arms  and  sweeping  stoles.     But  who,  alone 
And  unapproached,  beside  the  altar  stone, 
With  the  white  banner  forth  like  sunshine  streaming, 
And  the  gold  helm  through  clouds  of  fragrance  gleaming, 
Silent  and  radiant  stood  ?     The  helm  was  raised, 
And  the  fair  face  revealed,  that  upward  gazed, 
Intensely  worshipping — a  still,  clear  face, 
Youthful,  but  brightly  solemn  !     Woman's  cheek 
And  brow  were  there,  in  deep  devotion  meek, 
Yet  glorified,  with  inspiration's  trace 
On  its  pure  paleness  ;  while,  enthroned  above, 
The  pictured  Virgin,  with  her  smile  of  love, 
Seemed  bending  o'er  her  votaress.     That  slight  form  I 
Was  that  the  leader  through  the  battle  storm  ? 
Had  the  soft  light  in  that  adoring  eye 
Guided  the  warrior  where  the  swords  flashed  high  ? 
Twas  so,  even  so ! — and  thou,  the  shepherd's  child. 
Joanne,  the  lovely  dreamer  of  the  wild ! 
Never  before,  and  never  since  that  hour, 
Hath  woman,  mantled  w-ith  victorious  power, 
Stood  forth  as  thou  beside  the  shrine  didst  stand, 
Holy  amidst  the  knighthood  of  the  land, 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  185 


And,  beautiful  with  joy  and  with  renown, 
Lift  thy  white  banner  o'er  the  olden  crown, 
Ransomed  for  France  by  thee  ! 

The  rites  are  done. 

Now  let  the  dome  with  trumpet-notes  be  shaken, 
And  bid  the  echoes  of  the  tomb  awaken, 

And  come  thou  forth,  that  heaven's  rejoicing  sun 
May  give  thee  welcome  from  thine  own  blue  skies, 

Daughter  of  victory !     A  triumphant  strain, 
A  prou6  vich  stream  of  warlike  melodies, 

Gushed  through  the  portals  of  the  antique  fane, 
And  forth  she  came.     Then  rose  a  nation's  sound: 
Oh  !  what  a  power  to  bid  the  quick  heart  bound, 
The  wind  bears  onward  with  the  stormy  cheer 
Man  gives  to  glory  on  her  high  career ! 
Is  there  indeed  such  power  ? — far  deeper  dwells 
In  one  kind  household  voice,  to  reach  the  cells 
Whence  happiness  flows  forth  !     The-  shouts  that  filled 
The  hollow  heaven  tempestuously,  were  stilled 
One  moment ;  and  in  that  brief  pause,  the  tone, 
As  of  a  breeze  that  o'er  her  honie  had  blown, 
Sank  on  the  bright  maid's  heart.     "Joanne  ! " — Who  spoke 

Like  those  whose  childhood  with  her  childhood  grew 
Under  one  roof  ?     "  Joanne  1 " — that  murmur  broke 

With  sounds  of  weeping  forth  !     She  turned — she  knew 
Beside  her,  marked  from  all  the  thousands  there, 
In  the  calm  beauty  of  his  silver  hair, 
The  stately  shepherd  ;  and  the  youth  whose  joy, 
Fronvhis  dark  eye  flashed  proudly ;  and  the  boy, 
The  youngest  born,  that  ever  loved  her  best : — 
"  Father  !  and  ye,  my  brothers  1  "     On  the  breast 
Of  that  gray  sire  she  sank — and  swiftly  back, 
Even  in  an  instant,  to  their  native  track 
Her  free  thoughts  flowed.     She  saw  the  pomp  no  more, 
The  plumes,  the  banners  ;  to  her  cabin-door, 
And  to  the  Fairy's  Fountain  in  the  glade, 
Where  her  young  sisters  by  her  side  had  played, 
And  to  her  hamlet's  chapel,  where  it  rose 
Hallowing  the  forest  unto  deep  repose, 
Her  spirit  turned.     The  very  wood-note,  sung 

In  early  spring-time  by  the  bird,  which  dwelt 
Where  o'er  her  father's  roof  the  beech  leaves  hung, 

Was  in  her  heart ;   a  music  heard  and  felt, 
Winning  her  back  to  nature.     She  unbound 

The  helm  of  many  battles  from  her  head, 
"tnd,  with  her  bright  locks  bowed  to  sweep  the  ground, 

Lifting  her  voice  up,  wept  for  joy  and  said — 
1  Bless  me,  my  father  !  bless  me  !  and  with  thee, 
To  the  still  cabin  and  the  beechen  tree. 
Let  me  return  !  " 


1 86  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


Oh  !  never  did  thine  eye 
Through  the  green  haunts  of  happy  infancy 
Wander  again,  Joanne  !     Too  much  of  fame 
Had  shed  its  radiance  on  thy  peasant  name  ; 
And  bought  alone  by  gifts  beyond  all  price — 
The  trusting  heart's  repose,  the  paradise 
Of  home,  with  all  its  loves — doth  fate  allow 
The  crown  of  glory  unto  woman's  brow. 


PAULINE. 

"To  die  for  what  we  love!     Oh!  there  is  power 
In  the  true  heart,  and  pride,  and  joy,  for  this ' 
It  is  to  live  without  the  vanished  light 
That  strength  is  needed." 

'Cosl  trapassa  al  trapassar  d'un  Giorno 
Delia  vita  mortal  il  fiore  e'l  verde."— TASSO. 

ALONG  the  starlit  Seine  went  music  swelling, 
Till  the  air  thrilled  "with  its  exulting  mirth  ; 

Proudly  it  floated,  even  as  if  no  dwelling 
For  cares  of  stricken  hearts  were  found  on  earth  ; 

And  a  glad  sound  the  measure  lightly  beat, 

A  happy  chime  of  many  dancing  feet. 

For  in  a  palace  of  the  land  that  night, 

Lamps,  and  fresh  roses,  and  green  leaves  were  hung, 
And  from  the  painted  walls  a  stream  of  light 

On  flying  forms  beneath  soft  splendor  flung ; 
But  loveliest  far  amidst  the  revel's  pride 
Was  one — the  lady  from  the  Danube  side. 

Pauline,  the  meekly  bright !  though  now  no  more 

Her  clear  eye  flashed  with  youth's  all-tameless  glee, 
Yet  something  holier  than  its  dayspring  wore, 

There  in  soft  rest  lay  beautiful  to  see ; 
A  charm  with  graver,  tenderer,  sweetness  fraught—- 
The blending  of  deep  love  and  matron  thought 

Though  the  gay  throng  she  moved,  serenely  fair, 
And  such  calm  joy  as  fills  a  moonlight  sky 

Sat  on  her  brow  beneath  its  graceful  hair, 
As  her  young  daughter  in  the  dance  went  by, 

With  the  fleet  step  of  one  that  yet  hath  known 

Smiles  and  kind  voices  in  this  world  alone. 

Lurked  there  no  secret  boding  in  her  breast  ? 

Did  no  faint  whisper  warn  of  evil  nigh  ? 
Such  oft  awake  when  m»st  the  heart  seems  blest 

Midst  the  light  Inughter  of  festivity. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  187 


Whence  come  those  tones  ?     Alas  !  enough  we  know 
To  mingle  fear  with  all  triumphal  show  ! 

Who  spoke  of  evil  when  young  feet  were  flying 

In  fairy  rings  around  the  echoing  hall  ? 
Soft  airs  through  braided  locks  in  perfume  sighing, 

Glad  pulses  beating  unto  music's  call  ? 
Silence  I — the  minstrels  pause — and  hark !  a  sound, 
A  strange  quick  rustling  which  their  notes  had  drowned! 

And  lo  !  a  light  upon  the  dancers  breaking — 

Not  such  their  clear  and  silvery  lamps  had  shed ! 

From  the  gay  dream  of  revelry  awaking, 

One  moment  holds  them  still  in  breathless  dread. 

The  wild  fierce  lustre  grows :  then  bursts  a  cry — 

Fire!  through  the  hall  and  round  it  gathering — fly! 

And  forth  they  rush,  as  chased  by  sword  and  spear, 
To  the  green  coverts  of  the  garden  bowers — 

A  gorgeous  masque  of  pageantry  and  fear, 

Startling  the  birds  and  trampling  down  the  flowers : 

While  from  the  dome  behind,  red  sparkles  driven 

Pierce  the  dark  stillness  of  the  midnight  heaven. 

And  where  is  she — Pauline  ?  the  hurrying  throng 
Have  swept  her  onward  as  a  stormy  blast 

Might  sweep  some  faint  o'erwearied  bird  along — 
Till  now  the  threshold  of  that  death  is  past, 

And  free  she  stands  beneath  the  starry  skies, 

Calling  her  child — but  no  sweet  voice  replies. 

"  Bertha  !  where  art  thou  ?    Speak  !  oh,  speak,  my  own  1 " 
Alas  !  unconscious  of  her  pangs  the  while, 

The  gentle  girl,  in  fear's  cold  grasp  alone, 
Powerless  had  sunk  within  the  blazing  pile  ; 

A  young  bright  form,  decked  gloriously  for  death, 

With  flowers  all  shrinking  from  the  flame's  fierce  breath! 

But  oh  !  thy  strength,  deep  love  !     There  is  no  power 
To  stay  the  mother  from  that  rolling  grave, 

Though  fast  on  high  the  fiery  volumes  tower, 
And  forth  like  banners  from  each  lattice  wave  : 

Back,  back  she  rushes  through  a  host  combined — 

Mighty  is  anguish,  with  affection  twined  I 

And  what  bold  step  may  follow,  midst  the  roar 
Of  the  red  billows,  o'er  their  prey  that  rise  ? 

None  ! — Courage  there  stood  still — and  never  more 
Did  those  fair  forms  emerge  on  human  eyes  I 

Was  one  bright  meeting  theirs,  one  wild  farewell  ? 

And  died  they  heart  to  heart  ? — Oh  !  who  can  tell  ? 


1 88  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


Freshly  and  cloudlessly  the  morning  broke 
On  that  sad  palace,  midst  its  pleasure  shades  ; 

Its  painted  roofs  had  sunk — yet  black  with  smoke 
And  lonely  stood  its  marble  colonnades : 

But  yester  eve  their  shafts  with  wreaths  were  bound, 

Now  lay  the  scene  one  shrivelled  scroll  around ! 

And  bore  the  ruins  no  recording  trace 

Of  all  that  woman's  heart  had  dared  and  done  ? 

Yes !  there  were  gems  to  mark  its  mortal  place, 
That  forth  from  dust  and  ashes  dimly  shone  ! 

Those  had  the  mother,  on  her  gentle  breast, 

Worn  round  her  child's  fair  image,  there  at  rest. 

And  they  were  all ! — the  tender  and  the  true 

Left  this  alone  her  sacrifice  to  prove, 
Hallowing  the  spot  where  mirth  once  lightly  flew, 

To  deep  lone  chastened  thoughts  of  grief  and  love. 
Oh  !  we  have  need  of  patient  faith  below, 
To  clear  away  the  mysteries  of  such  woe  I 


JUANA. 

Quana,  mother  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,  upon  the  death  of  her  husband,  Philip  the  Hand 
some  of  Austria,  who  had  treated  her  with  uniform  neglect,  had  his  body  laid  upon  a  bed  ol 
state  in  a  magnificent  dress  ;  and  being  possessed  with  the  idea  that  it  would  revive,  watche-1 
it  for  a  length  of  time,  incessantly  waiting  for  the  moment  of  returning  life.] 

"  It  is  but  dust  thou  lookst  upon.    This  love, 
This  wild  and  passionate  idolatry, 
What  doth  it  in  the  shadow  of  the  grave  ? 
Gather  it  back  within  thy  lonely  heart, 
So  must  it  ever  end  :  too  much  we  give 
Unto  the  things  that  perish." 

THE  night  wind  shook  the  tapestry  around  an -ancient  palace  room, 
And  torches,  as  it  rose  and  fell,  waved  through  the  gorgeous  gloom, 
And  o'er  a  shadowy  regal  couch  threw  fitful  gleams  and  red, 
Where  a  woman  with  long  raven  hair  sat  watching  by  the  dead. 

Pale  shone  the  features  of  the  dead,  yet  glorious  still  to  see, 

Like  a  hunter  or  a  chief  struck  down  while  his  heart  and  step  were  free ; 

No  shroud  he  wore,  no  robe  of  death,  but  there  majestic  lay, 

Proudly  and  sadly  glittering  in  royalty's  array. 

But  she  that  with  the  dark  hair  watched  by  the  cold  slumberer's  side-, 
On  her  wan  cheek  no  beauty  dwelt,  and  in  her  garb  no  prids  ; 
Only  her  full  impassioned  eyes,  as  o'er  that  clay  she  bent, 
A  wildness  and  a  tenderness  in  strange  resplendence  blent. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  189 

And  as  the  swift  thoughts  crossed  her  soul,  like  shadows  of  a  cloud, 
Amidst  the  silent  room  of  death,  the  dreamer  spoke  aloud; 
She  spoke  to  him  that  could  not  hear,  and  cried,  "  Thou  yet  wilt  wake, 
And  learn  my  watcbings  and  my  tears,  beloved  one  !  for  thy  sake. 

"  They  told  me  this  was  death,  but  well  I  knew  it  could  not  be; 
Fairest  and  stateliest  of  the  earth  !  who  spoke  of  death  for  thee ? 
They  would  have  wrapped  the  funeral  shroud  thy  gallant  form  around 
But  I  forbade — and  there  thou  art,  a  monarch,  robed  and  crowned  I 

"  With  all  thy  bright  locks  gleaming  still,  their  coronal  beneath, 
And  thy  brow  so  proudly  beautiful — who  said  that  this  was  death  ? 
Silence  hath  been  upon  tliy  lips,  and  stillness  round  thee  long, 
But  the  hopeful  spirit  in  my  breast  is  all  undimmed  and  strong. 

"  I  know  thou  hast  not  loved  me  yet ;  I  am  not  fair  like  thee, 
The  very  glance  of  whose  clear  eye  threw  round  a  light  of  glee  I 
A  frail  and  drooping  form  is  mine — a  cold  unsmiling  cheek — 
Oh !  I  have  but  a  woman's  heart  wherewith  thy  heart  to  seek. 

••  But  when  thou  wakest,  my  prince,  my  lord  I  and  hearest  how  I  have  kept 
A  lonel"  vigil  by  thy  side,  and  o'er  thee  prayed  and  wept — 
How  in  one  long  deep  dream  of  thee  my  nights  and  days  have  past 
Surely  that  humble  patient  love  must  win  back  love  at  last ! 

"And  thou  wilt  smile — my  own,  my  own,  shall  be  the  sunny  smile, 
Which  brightly  fell,  and  joyously,  on  all  but  me  erewhile  ! 
No  more  in  vain  affection's  thirst  my  weary  soul  shall  pine — 
Oh  !  years  of  hope  deferred  were  paid  by  one  fond  glance  of  thine  ! 

"  Thou'lt  meet  me  with  that  radiant  look  when  thou  comest  from  the  chase— 
For  me,  for  me,  in  festal  halls  it  shall  kindle  o'er  thy  face  ! 
Thou'lt  reck  no  more  though  beauty's  gift  mine  aspect  may  not  bless 
In  thy  kind  eyes,  this  deep,  deep  love  shall  give'me  loveliness. 

"But  wake  !  my  heart  within  me  burns,  yet  once  more  to  rejoice 
In  the  sound  to  which  it  ever  leaped,  the  music  of  thy  voice. 
Awake!  I  sit  in  solitude,  that  thy  first  look  and  tone, 
And  the  gladness  of  thine  opening  eyes,  may  all  be  mine  alone." 

In  the  still  chambers  of  the  dust,  thus  poured  forth  clay  by  day, 
The  passion  of  that  loving  dream  from  a  troubled  soul  found  way, 
Until  the  shadows  of  the  grave  had  swept  o'er  every  grace, 
Left  'midst  the  awfulness  of  death  on  the  princely  form  and  face. 

And  slowly  broke  the  fearful  truth  upon  the  watcher's  breast, 
And  they  bore  away  the  royal  dead  with  requiems  to  his  rest, 
With  banners  and  with  knightly  plumes  all  waving  in  the  wind- 
But  a  woman's  broken  heart  was  left  in  its  lone  despair  behind. 


»9°  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


THE  AMERICAN  FOREST  GIRL. 

"  A  fearful  gift  upon  thy  heart  is  laid, 
Woman  !  —A  power  to  suffer  and  to  love ; 
Therefore  thou  so  canst  pity." 

WILDLY  and  mournfully  the  Indian  drum 

On  the  deep  hush  of  moonlight  forests  broke— 
"  Sing  us  a  death-song,  for  thine  hour  is  come." — 

So  the  red  warriors  to  their  captive  spoke. 
Still,  and  amidst  those  dusky  forms  alone, 

A  youth,  a  fair-haired  youth  of  England  stood, 
Like  a  king's  son  ;  though  from  his  cheek  had  flown 

The  mantling  crimson  of  the  island  blood, 
And  his  pressed  lips  looked  marble.     Fiercely  bright 
And  high  around  him  blazed  the  fires  of  ni^ht, 
Rocking  beneath  the  cedars  to  and  fro, 
As  the  wind  passed,  and  with  a  fitful  glow 
Lighting  the  victim's  face  :  but  who  could  tell 
Of  what  within  his  secret  heart  befell, 
Known  but  to  heaven  that  hour  ?     Perchance  a  thought 
Of  his  far  home  then  so  intensely  wrought, 
That  its  full  image,  pictured  to  his  eye 
On  the  dark  ground  of  mortal  agony, 
Rose  clear  as  day  ! — and  he  might  see  the  band 
Of  his  young  sisters  wandering  hand  in  hand 
Where  the  laburnums  drooped  ;  or  haply  binding 
The  jasmine  up  the  door's  low  pillars  winding  ; 
Or,  as  day  closed  upon  their  gentle  mirth, 
Gathering,  with  braided  hair,  around  the  hearth, 
Where  sat  their  mother  ;  and  that  mother's  face 
Its  grave  sweet  smile  yet  wearing  in  the  place 
Where  so  it  ever  smiled  I     Perchance  the  prayer 
Learned  at  her  knee  came  back  on  his  despair ; 
The  blessing  from  her  voice,  the  very  tone 
Of  her  "  Good-night!"  might  breathe  from  boyhood  gone 
— He  started  and  looked  up :  thick  cypress  boughs, 
Full  of  strange  sound,  waved  o'er  him,  darkly  red 
In  the  broad  stormy  firelight ;  savage  brows, 

With  tall  plumes  crested  and  wild  hues  o'erspread, 
Girt  him  like  feverish  phantoms  ;  and  pale  stars 
Looked  through  the  branches  as  through  dungeon  bars, 
Shedding  no  hope.     He  knew,  he  felt  his  doom — 
Oh  !  what  a  tale  to  shadow  with  its  gloom 
That  happy  hall  in  England  !     Idle  fear  \ 
Would  the  winds  tell  it  ?     Who  might  dream  or  hear 
The  secret  of  the  forests  ?    To  the  stake 

They  bound  him  ;  and  that  proud  young  soldier  strove 
His  father's  spirit  in  his  breast  to  wake, 

Trusting  to  die  in  silence  !     He,  the  love 
Of  many  hearts  ! — the  fondly  reared — the  fair, 


RECORD     OF  WOMAN.  191 


Gladdening  all  eyes  t(     ee  !     And  fettered  there 

He  stood  beside  his  death-pyre,  and  the  brand 

Flamed  up  to  light  in  the  chieftain's  hand. 

He  thought  upon  his  God.     Hush  !  hark  !  a  cry 

Breaks  on  the  stern  and  dread  solemnity — 

A  step  hath  pierced  the  ring !     Who  dares  intrude 

On  the  dark  hunters  in  their  vengeful  mood  ? 

A  girl — a  young  slight  girl — a  fawn-like  child 

Of  green  savannas  and  the  leafy  wild, 

Springing  unmarked  till  then,  as  some  lone  flower, 

Happy  because  the  sunshine  is  its  dower ; 

Yet,  one  that  knew  how  early  tears  are  shed, 

For  hers  had  mourned  a  playmate-brother  dead. 

She  had  sat  gazing  on  the  victim  long, 

Until  the  pity  of  her  soul  grew  strong ; 

And,  by  its  passion's  deepening  fervor  swayed, 

Even  to  the  stake  she  rushed,  and  gently  laid 

His  bright  head  on  her  bosom,  and  around 

His  form  her  slender  arms  to  shield  it  wound  • 

Like  close  Liannes  ;  then  raided  her  glittering  eye, 

And  clear-toned  voice,  then  said,  "  He  shall  not  die  1  * 

"  He  shall  not  die  !  " — the  gloomy  forest  thrilled 

To  that  sweet  sound.     A  sudden  wonder  fell 
On  the  fierce  throng  ;  and  heart  and  hand  were  stilled. 

Struck  down  as  by  the  whisper  of  a  spell. 
They  gazed  :  their  dark  souls  bowed  before  the  maid. 
She  of  the  dancing  step  in  wood  and  glade  ! 
And,  as  her  cheek  flushed  through  its  olive  hue, 
As  her  black  tresses  to  the  night-wind  flew, 
Something  o'ermastered  them  from  that  young  mien- 
Something  of  heaven  in  silence  felt  and  seen  ; 
And  seeming,  to  their  childlike  faith,  a  token 
That  the  Great  Spirit  by  her  voice  had  spoken. 

They  loosed  the  bonds  that  held  their  captive's  breath  j 
From  his  pale  lips  they  took  the  cup  of  death  ; 
They  quenched  the  brand  beneath  the  cypress  tree  : 
"Away,"  they  cried,  "young  stranger, thou  art  frael" 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


COSTA  >,  ^A. 

"  Art  thou  then  desolate  ? 
Of  friends,  of  hopes  forsaken  ?    Come  to  me ! 
I  am  thine  own.     Have  trusted  hearts  proved  false? 
Flatterers  deceived  thee  ?    Wanderer,  come  to  me ! 
Why  didst  thou  ever  leave  me  ?     Knowest  thou  all 
I  would  have  borne,  and  called  it  joy  to  bear. 
For  thy  sake  ?     Knowest  thou  thnt  thy  voice  hath  power 
To  shake  me  with  a  thrill  of  happiness 
By  one  kind  tone  ? — to  fill  mine  eyes  with  tears 
Of  yearning  love  ?    And  thou — oh  !  thou  didst  throw 
That  crushed  affection  back  upon  my  heart ; 
Yet  come  to  me  !— it  died  not." 

SHE  knelt  in  prayer.     A  stream  of  sunset  fell 

Through  the  stained  window  of  her  lonely  cell, 

And  with  its  rich,  deep,  melancholy  glow, 

Flushing  her  cheek  and  pale  Madonna  brow, 

While  o'er  her  long  hair's  flowing  jet  it  threw 

Bright  waves  of  gold — the  autumn  forest's  hue — 

Seemed  all  a  vision's  mist  of  glory,  spread 

By  painting's  touch  around  some  holy  head, 

Virgin's  or  fairest  martyr's.     In  her  eye 

Which  glanced  as  dark  clear  water  to  the  sky, 

What  solemn  fervor  lived  !     And  yet  what  woe, 

Lay  like  some  buried  thing,  still  seen  below 

The  glassy  tide  !     Qh  i  he  that  could  reveal 

What  life  had  taught  that  chastened  heart  to  feel, 

Might  speak  indeed  of  woman's  blighted  years, 

And  wasted  love,  and  vainly  bitter  tears ! 

But  she  had  told  her  griefs  to  heaven  alone, 

And  of  the  gentle  saint  no  more  was  known, 

Than  that  she  fled  the  world's  cold  breath,  and  made 

A  temple  of  the  pine  and  chestnut  shade, 

Filling  its  depths  with  soul,  whene'er  her  hymn 

Rose  through  each  murmur  of  the  green,  and  dim, 

And  ancient  solitude  ;  where  hidden  streams 

Went  moaning  through  the  grass,  like  sounds  in  dream*- 

Music  for  weary  hearts  !     'Midst  leaves  and  flowers 

She  dwelt,  and  knew  all  secrets  of  their  powers, 

All  nature's  balms,  wherewith  her  gliding  tread 

To  the  sick  peasant  on  his  lowly  bed 

Came  and  brought  hope  !  while  scarce  of  mortal  birth 

He  deemed  the  pale  fair  form  that  held  on  earth 

Communion  but  with  grief. 

Ere  long,  a  cell, 
A  rock-hewn  chapel  rose,  a  cross  of  stone 

Gleamed  through  the  dark  trees  o'er  a  sparkling  well, 
And  a  sweet  voice,  of  rich  yet  mournful  tone, 

Told  the  Calabrian  wilds  that  duly  there 

Costanza  lifted  her  sad  heart  in  prayer. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  193 

And  now  'twas  prayer's  own  hour.    That  voice  again 

Through  the  dim  foliage  sent  its  heavenly  strain, 

That  made  the  cypress  quiver  where  it  stood, 

In  day's  last  crimson  soaring  from  the  wood 

Like  spiry  flame.     But  as  the  bright  sun  set, 

Other  and  wilder  sounds  in  tumult  met 

The  floating  song.     Strange  sounds  ! — the  trumpet's  peal, 

Made  hollow  by  the  rocks ;  the  clash  of  steel ; 

The  rallying  war-cry.     In  the  mountain  pass 

There  had  been  combat ;  blood  was  on  the  grass, 

Banners  had  strewn  the  waters  ;  chiefs  lay  dying, 

And  the  pine  branches  crashed  before  the  flying. 

And  all  was  changed  within  the  still  retreat, 
Costanza's  home  :  there  entered  hurrying  feet, 
Dark  looks  of  shame  and  sorrow — mail-clad  men, 
Stern  fugitives  from  that  wild  battle-glen, 
Scaring  the  ringdoves  from  the  porch  roof,  bore 
A  wounded  warrior  in.     The  rocky  floor 
Gave  back  deap  echoes  to  his  clanging  sword, 
As  there  they  laid  their  leader,  and  implored 
The  sweet  saint's  prayers  to  heal  him  :  then  for  flight. 
Through  the  wide  forest  and  the  mantling  night, 
Sped  breathless  again.     They  passed  ;  but  he, 
The  stateliest  of  a  host — alas!  to  see 
What  mother's  eyes  have  watched  in  rosy  sleep, 
Tiill  joy,  for  very  fulness,  turned  to  weep, 
Thus  changed!— a  fearful  thing!     His  golden  crest 
Was  shivered,  and  the  bright  scarf  on  his  breast — 
Some  costly  love-gift — rent :  but  what  of  these  ? 
There  were  the  clustering  raven  locks — the  breeze, 
As  it  came  in  through  lime  and  myrtle  flowers, 
Might  scarcely  lift  them  ;  steeped  in  bloody  shower*, 
So  heavily  upon  the  pallid  clay 
Of  the  damp  cheek  they  hung.     The  eyes'  dark  ray, 
Where  was  it  ?     And  the  lips!— they  gasped  apart, 
With  their  light  curve,  as  from  the  chisel's  art, 
Still  proudly  beautiful !  but  that  white  hue- 
Was  it  not  death's  ?— that  stillness— that  cold  dew 
On  the  scarred  forehead  ?     No!  his  spirit  broke 
From  its  deep  trance  ere  long,  yet  but  awoke 
To  wander  in  wild  dreams;  and  there  he  lay, 
By  the  fierce  fever  as  a  green  reed  shaken, 
The  haughty  chief  of  thousands— the  forsaken 
Of  all  save  one.     She  fled  not      Day  by  day — 
Such  hours  are  woman's  birthright— she,  unknown, 
Kept  watch  beside  him,  fearless  and  alone; 
Binding  his  wounds,  and  oft  in  silence  laving 
His  brow  with  tears  that  mourned  the  strong  man's  raving. 
He  felt  them  not,  nor  marked  the  light  veiled  form 
Still  hovering  nigh !  yet  sometimes,  when  that  storm 


RECORDS  'OF  WOMAN. 


Of  frenzy  sank,  her  voice,  in  tones  as  low 
As  a  young  mother's  by  the  cradle  singing, 
Would  soothe  him  with  sweet  aves,  gently  bringing 

Moments  of  slumber,  when  the  fiery  giow 
Fbbed  from  his  hollow  cheek. 

At  last  faint  gleams 

Of  memory  dawned  upon  the  cloud  of  dreams, 
And  feebly  lifting,  as  a  child,  his  head, 
And  gazing  round  him  from  his  leafy  bed, 
He  murmured  forth,  "  Where  am  I  ?     What  soft  straia 
Passed  like  a  breeze  across  my  burning  brain  ? 
Back  from  my  youth  it  floated,  with  a  tone 
Of  life's  first  music,  and  a  thought  of  one — 
Where  is  she  now  ?  and  where  the  gauds  of  pride, 
Whose  hollow  splendor  lured  me  from  her  side  ? 
All  lost ! — and  this  is  death ! — I  cannot  die 
Without  forgiveness  from  that  mournful  eye! 
Away  !  the  earth  hath  lost  her.     Was  she  bora 
To  brook  abandonment,  to  strive  with  scorn  ? 
My  first,  my  holiest  love ! — her  broken  heart 
Lies  low,  and  I — unpardoned  I  depart." 

But  then  Costanza  raised  the  shadowy  veil 
From  her  dark  locks  and  features  brightly  pale, 
And  stood  before  him  with  a  smile — oh  I  ne'er 
Did  aught  that  smiled  so  much  of  sadness  wear—- 
And said,  "  Cesario  1  look  on  me  ;  I  live 
To  say  my  heart  hath  bled;  and  can  forgive. 
I  loved  thee  with  such  worship,  such  deep  trust, 
As  should  be  heaven's  alone — and  heaven  is  justl 
I  bless  thee — be  at  peace  !  " 

But  o'er  his  frame 

Too  fast  the  strong  tide  rushed — the  sudden  shame. 
The  joy,  the  amaze  !     He  bowed  his  head — it  fell 
On  the  wronged  bosom  which  had  loved  so  well ; 
And  love,  still  perfect,  gave  him  refuge  there — 
His  list  faint  breath  just  waved  her  floating  hair. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  195 

MADELINE. 

A  DOMESTIC  TALE. 

**  Who  should  it  be  ?— Where  shouldst  thou  look  for  kindneM? 

When  we  are  sick,  where  can  we  turn  for  succor ; 

Wh»n  we  are  wretched,  where  can  we  complain  ; 

And  when  the  world  looks  cold  and  surly  on  us, 

Where  can  we  go  to  meet  a  warmer  eje 

With  such  sure  confidence  as  to  a  mother?  " 

JOANNA  P.AILUB. 

"  MY  child,  my  child,  thou  leavest  me !     I  shall  hear 
The  gentle  voice  no  roore  that  blest  mine  ear 
With  its  first  utterance :  I  shall  miss  the  sound 
Of  thy  light  step  amidst  the  flowers  around, 
And  thy  soft-breathing  hymn  at  twilight's  close, 
And  thy  'Good-night '  at  parting  for  repose. 
Under  the  vine-leaves  I  shall  sit  alone, 
And  the  low  breeze  will  have  a  mournful  tone 
Amidst  their  tendrils,  while  I  think  of  thee, 
Mv  child  !  and  thou,  along  the  moonlit  sea. 
With  a  soft  sadness  haply  in  thy  glance, 
Shalt  watch  thine  own,  thy  pleasant  land  of  France, 
Fading  to  air.     Yet  blessings  with  thee  go  ! 
Love  guard  thee,  gentlest !  and  the  exile's  woe 
From  thy  young  heart  be  far  !     And  sorrow  not 
For  me,  sweet  daughter  !  in  my  lonely  lot, 
God  shall  be  w'ith  me.     Now,  farewell !  farewell  I 
Thou  that  hast  been  what  words  may  never  tell 
Unto  thy  mother's  bosom,  since  the  days 
When  thou  wert  pillowed  there,  and  wont  to  raise 
In  sudden  laughter  thence  thy  loving  eye 
That  still  sought  mine  :  these  moments  are  gone  by— 
Thou  too  must  go,  my  flower  !     Yet  with  thee  dwell 
The  peace  of  God  !    One,  one  more  gaze  :  farewell  I* 

This  was  a  mother's  parting  with  her  child — 
A  young  meek  bride,  on  whom  fair  fortune  smiled, 
And  wooed  her  with  a  voice  of  love  away 
rrom  childhood's  home  :  yet  there,  with  fond  delay, 
She  lingered  on  the  threshold,  heard  the  note 
Of  her  caged  bird  through  trellised  rose-leaves  float 
And  fell  upon  her  mother's  neck  and  wept, 
Whilst  old  remembrances,  that  long  had  slept, 
Gushed  o'er  her  soul,  and  many  a  vanished  day 
As  in  one  picture  traced,  before  her  lay. 

But  the  farewell  was  said  ;  and  on  the  deep, 
When  its  breast  heaved  in  sunset's  golden  sleep, 
With  a  calmed  heart,  young  Madeline  ere  long 
Poured  forth  her  own  sweet,  solemn  vesper-song, 


KECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


Breathing  of  home.    Through  stillness  heard  afar, 
And  duly  rising  with  the  first  pale  star, 
That  voice  was  on  the  waters  ;  till  at  last 
The  sounding  ocean  solitudes  were  passed, 
And  the  bright  land  was  reached,  the  youthful  world 
That  glows  along  the  West  :  the  sails  were  furled 
In  its  clear  sunshine,  and  the  gentle  bride 
Looked  on  the  home  that  promised  hearts  untried 
A  bower  of  bliss  to  come.     Alas  !  we  trace 

The  map  of  our  own  paths,  and  long  ere  years 
With  their  dull  steps  the  brilliant  lines  efface, 

On  sweeps  the  storm,  and  blots  them  out  with  tears  ! 
That  home  was  darkened  soon  :  the  summer  breeze 
Welcomed  with  death  the  wanderers  from  the  seas  : 
Death  unto  one,  and  anguish  —  how  forlorn  ! 
To  her  that,  widowed  in  her  marriage  morn, 
Sat  in  her  voiceless  dwelling,  whence  with  him, 

Her  bosom's  first  beloved,  her  friend  and  guide, 
Joy  had  gone  forth,  and  left  the  green  earth  dim, 

As  from  the  sun  shut  out  on  every  side 
Bv  the  close  veil  of  misery.     Oh  1  but  ill, 

When  with  rich  hopes  o'erfraught,  the  young  high  heart 
Bears  its  first  blow  !  it  knows  not  yet  the  part 
Which  life  will  teach  —  to  suffer  and  be  still, 
And  with  submissive  love  to  count  the  flowers 
Which  vet  are  spared,  and  through  the  future  hours 
To  send  no  busy  dream  !     She  had  not  learned 
Of  sorrow  till  that  hour,  and  therefore  turned 
In  weariness  from  life.     Then  came  the  unrest, 
The  heart-sick  yearning  of  the  exile's  breast, 
The  haunting  sounds  of  voices  far  away, 
And  household  steps  :  until  at  last  she  lay 
On  her  lone  couch  of  sickness,  lost  in  dreams 
Of  the  gay  vineyards  and  blue-rushing  streams 
In  her  own  sunny  land  ,  and  murmuring  oft 
Familiar  names,  in  accents  wild  yet  soft, 
To  strangers  round  that  bed  who  knew  not  aught 
Of  the  deep  spells  wherewith  each  word  was  fraught. 
To  strangers  ?     Oh  !  could  strangers  raise  the  head 
Gently  as  hers  was  raised  ?     Did  strangers  shed 
The  kindly  tears  which  bathed  that  feverish  brow 
And  wasted  cheek  with  half-unconscious  flow  ? 
Something  was  there  that,  through  the  lingering  night, 
Outvvatches  patiently  the  taper's  light  — 
Something  that  faints  not  through  the  day's  distress, 
That  fears  not  toil,  that  knows  not  weariness  — 
Love,  true  and  perfect  love  !     Whence  came  that  power, 
Uprearing  through  the  storm  the  drooping  flower  ? 
Whence?  —  who  can  ask  ?    The  wild  delirium  passed, 
And  from  her  eyes  the  spirit  looked  at  last 
Into  her  mother's  face,  and  wakening  knew 
The  brow's  calm  grace,  the  hair's  dear  silvery  hue, 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


The  kind  sweet  smile  of  old  ! — and  had  ski  come, 
Thus  in  life's  evening  from  her  distant  home, 
To  save  her  child  ?     Even  so — nor  yet  in  vain  : 
In  that  young  heart  a  light  sprang  up  again, 
And  lovely  still,  with  so  much  love  to  give, 
Seemed  this  fair  world,  though  faded ;  still  to  live 
Was  not  to  pine  forsaken.     On  the  breast 
That  rocked  her  childhood,  sinking  in  soft  rest, 
"  Sweet  mother  !  gentlest  mother !  can  it  be  ?  " 
The  lorn  one  cried,  "  and  do  I  look  on  thee  ? 
Take  back  thy  wanderer  from  this  fatal  shore, 
Peace  shall  be  ours  beneath  our  vines  once  more.'* 


THE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA'S  TOMB. 

'  This  tomb  is  in  the  garden  of  Charlottenburg,  near  Berlin.  It  was  not  without  surprise  that 
I  came  suddenly,  among  trees,  upon  a  fair  white  Doric  temple.  I  might  and  should  hav» 
deemed  it  a  mere  adornment  of  the  grounds,  but  the  cypress  and  the  willow  declare  it  a  hab- 
itation of  the  dead.  Upon  a  sarcophagus  of  white  marble  lay  a  sheet,  and  the  outline  of  the 
human  form  was  plainly  visible  beneath  its  folds.  The  person  with  me  reverently  turned  it 
back,  and  displayed  the  statue  of  his  queen.  It  is  a  portrait  statue  recumbent,  said  to  be  a- 
perfect  resemblance — not  as  in  death,  but  when  she  lived  to  bless  and  be  blessed.  Nothing 
can  be  more  calm  and  kind  than  the  expression  of  her  features.  The  hands  are  folded  on  the 
bosom  ;  the  limbs  are  sufficiently  crossed  to  show  the  repose  of  life.  Hers  the  King  brings 
her  children  annually,  to  offer  garlands  at  her  grave.  These  hang  in  withered  mournfulnes* 
above  this  living  image  of  their  departed  mother." — SHERER  s  Notes  and  Reflection* 
during  a  Ramble  in  Germany.] 

"  In  sweet  pride  upon  that  insult  keen 
She  s.miled  ;  then  drooping  mute  and  brokenhearted* 
To  the  cold  comfort  of  the  grave  departed." — MILMAN. 


IT  stands  where  northern  willows  weep, 

A  temple  fair  and  lone  ; 
Soft  shadows  o'er  its  marble  sweep 

From  cypress  branches  thrown  ; 
While  silently  around  it  spread, 
Thou  feelest  the  presence  of  the  dead. 

And  what  within  is  richly  shrined? 

A  sculptured  woman's  form, 
lLovely,  in  perfect  rest  reclined, 

As  one  beyond  the  storm  : 
Yet  not  of  death,  but  slumber,  lies 
The  solemn  sweetness  on  those  eyes. 

The  folded  hands,  the  calm  pure  face, 

The  mantle's  quiet  flow, 
The  gentle  yet  majestic  grace 

Throned  on  the  matron  brow ; 
These,  in  that  scene  of  tender  gloom, 
"With  a  still  glory  robe  the  tomb. 


There  stands  an  eagle,  at  the  feet 
Of  the  fair  image  wrought ; 

A  kingly  emblem — nor  unmeet 
To  wake  yet  deeper  thought  : 

She  whose  high  heart  finds  rest  below 

Was  royal  in  her  birth  and  woe 

There  are  pale  garlands  hung  above 

Of  dying  scent  and  hue  ; 
She  was  a  mother — in  her  love 

How  sorrowfully  true! 
Oh  !  hallowed  long  be  every  leaf, 
The  record  of  her  children's  grief ! 

She   saw    their    birthright's  warrior 

crown 

Of  olden  glory  spoiled, 
The   standard     of   their    sires  born 

down, 
The  shield's  bright  blazon  soiled  : 


— L 


1 98 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


She  met  the  tempest  meekly  brave, 
Then  turned  o'erwearied  to'  the  grave. 

She  slumbered :  but  it  came — it  came, 
Her  land's  redeeming  hor.r, 

With  the  glad  shout,  and  signal  flame 
Sent  on  from  tower  to  tower  ! 

fast  through  the  realm  a  spirit  moved — 

Twas  hers,  the  lofty  and  the  loved. 

Then  was  her  name  a  note  that  rung 
To  rouse  bold  hearts  from  sleep ; 
Her  memory,  as  a  banner  flung 


Forth  by  the  Balti«"  deep  : 
Her  grief,  a  bitter  vial  poured 
To  sanctify  the  avenger's  sword. 

And  the  crowned  eagle  spread  again 

His  pinion  to  the  sun  ; 
And  the    strong    land  shook    off    its 

chain — 

So  was  the  triumph  won! 
But  woe    for    earth,   where    sorrow's 

tone 

Still  blends  with  victory's! — She  was 
gonel 


THE  MEMORIAL  PILLAR. 

[On  the  road-side,  between  Penrith  and  Appleby,  stands  a  small  pillar  with  this  inscription: — 
"This  pillar  was  erected,  in  the  year  1656,  by  Ann,  Countess-Dowager  of  Pembroke,  for  a 
memorial  of  her  last  parting,  in  this  place,  with  her  good  and  pious  mother,  Margaret, 
Countess-Dowager  of  Cumberland,  on  the  zd  April,  1616." — See  notes  to  tlw  Pleasures  o) 
Memory-] 

"  Hast  thou  through  Eden's  wild-wood  vales,  pursued 

Each  mountain  scene  magnificently  rude, 

Nor  with  attention's  lifted  eye  revered 

That  modest  stone,  by  pious  Pembroke  reared, 

Which  still  records,  beyond  the  pencil's  power, 

The  silent  sorrows  of  a  parting  hour  ?" — ROGERS. 


MOTHER  and  child  !   whose  blending 
tears 

Have  sanctified  the  place, 
Where, to  the  love  of  many  years 

Was  given  one  last  embrace — 
Dh  !  ye  have  shrined  a  spell  of  power, 
Deep  in  your  record  of  that  hour. 

\  spell  to  waken  solemn  thought — 

A  still,  small  under  tone, 
That    calls   back    days   of  childhood 

fraught 

With  many  a  treasure  gone  ; 
And  smites,    perchance,    the    hidden 

source, 
Though  long  untroubled — of  remo'Te. 

For  who,  that  gazes  on  the  s*^ne 
Which  marks  your  parting  spot, 

Who  b'^t  a  mother's  love  hath  known — 
The  o'tc  love  changing  not  ? 


Alas  !  and  haply  learned  \cr  worth 
First   with   the  sound   o*   *  Earth   to 
earth ! " 

But  thou,  high-hearted  >\t  .ighter !  thou, 
O'er  whose  bright  honored  head 

Blessings  and  tears  if  holiest  flow 
E'en  here  were  fondly  shed— 

Thou  from  the  fassion  of  the  grief, 

In  its  full  b'U»t,  couldst  draw  relief. 

For,  oh  \   ')iough  painful  be  the  excess. 

The  ".light  wherewith  it  swells, 
!•-  rt'.ture's  fount  no  bitterness 
Of  nature's  mingling  dwells; 
I  And  thou  hadst  not,  by  wrong  or  pride, 
Poisoned  the  free  and  healthful  tide. 

But  didst  thou  meet  the  face  nomorl 
Which  thy  young  heart  first  knew? 

And  all — was  all  in  this  world  o'er 
With  ties  thus  close  and  true? 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


199 


[t  was  !     On  earth  no  other  eye 
!Jould  give  thee  back  thine  infancy. 

No  other  voice  could  pierce  the  maze 
Where,  deep  within  thy  breast, 

The  sounds  and  dreams  of  other  days 
With  memory  lay  at  rest ; 

No  other  smile  to  thee  could  bring 

A  gladdening,  like  the  breath  of  spring. 

Vet,  while  thy  place  of  weeping  still 

Its  lone  memorial  keeps, 
While  on  thy  name,  midst  wood  and 
hill, 

The  quiet  sunshine  sleeps, 


And  touches,  in  each  graven  line, 
Of  reverential  thought  a  sign  ; 

Can  I,  while  yet  these  tokens  wear 

The  impress  of  the  dead, 
Think  of  the  love  embodied  there 

As  of  a  vision  fled  ? 
A  perished  thing,  the  joy  and  flower 
And  glory  of  one  earthly  hour? 

Not  so ! — I  will  not  bow  me  so 
To  thoughts  that  breathe  despair  ! 

A  loftier  faith  we  need  below, 
Life's  farewell  words  to  bear. 

Mother   and     child! — your   tears  are 
past — 

Surely  your  hearts  have  met  at  last. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  A  POETESS.1 

•  Ne  me  plaignez  pas — si  vous  saviez 
Combien  de  peines  ce  tombeau  m'a  epargnees ! ' 


STOOD  beside  thy  lowly  grave ; 
Spring  odors  breathed  around, 
And  music,  in  the  river  wave, 
Passed  with  a  lulling  sound. 

All  happy  things  that  love  the  sun 
In  the  bright  air  glanced  by, 

And  a  glad  murmur  seemed  to  run 
Through  the  soft  azure  sky. 

Fresh  leaves  were  on  the  ivy  bough 
That  fringed  the  ruins  near ; 

Young  voices  were  abroad — but  thou 
Their  sweetness  couldst  not  hear. 

And  mournful  grew  my  heart  for  thee  ! 

Thou  in  whose  woman's  mind 
The  ray  that  brightens  earth  and  sea, 

The  ligiht  of  song,  was  shrined. 

Mournful,  that   thou  wert  slumbering 

low, 
With  a  dread  curtain  drawn 


Between  thee  and  the  golden  glow 
Of  this  world's  vernal  dawn. 

Parted  from  all  the  song  and  bloom 
Thou  wouldst  have  loved  so  well, 

To  thee  the  sunshine  round  thy  tomb 
Was  but  a  broken  spell. 

The  bird,  the  insect  on  the  wing, 
In  their  bright  reckless  play, 

Might  feel  the  flush  and  life  of  spring — 
And  thou  wert  passed  away. 

But  then,  e'eri  then,  a  nobler  thought 
O'er  my  vain  sadness  tr.ir.e  ; 

The  immortal  spirit  woke,  and  wrought 
Within  my  thrilling  frame. 

Surely  on  lovelier  things,  I  said", 
Thou  must  have  looked  ere  now, 

Than  all  that  round  our  pathway  shed 
Odors  and  hues  below. 


1  "  Intrinsic  interest  has  lately  attached  to  the  fine  scenery  of  Woodstock,  near  Kilkenny, 
on  account  of  its  having  been  the  last  residence  of  the  author  of  Psyche.  Her  grave  is  one  of 
in.mv  in  the  churchyard  of  the  village.  The  river  runs  smoothly  by.  The  ruins  of  an  ancient 
abbey,  il.u  have  been  (lartl.-.lljr  converted  into  a  church,  reverently  throw  their  mantle  al 
'.ender  bind,  w  over  it." — Tales  by  the  O'Ha~a  Family. 


200 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


The  shadows  of  the  tomb  are  here, 

Yet  beautiful  is  earth  ! 
What  see'st  thou.  then,  where  no  dim 
fear, 

No  haunting  dream  hath  birth  ? 

Here  a  vain  love  to  passing  flowers 
Thou  gavest ;  but  where  thou  art, 

The  sway  is  not  with  changeful  hours — 
There  love  and  death  must  part. 


Thou  hast  left  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

A  voice  not  loud  but  deep 
The  glorious  bowers  of  earth  among, 

How  often  didst  thou  weep  ? 

Where    couldst    thou   fix    on    morta 

ground 

Thy  tender  thoughts  and  high  ? — 
Now   peace  the  woman's  heart   hath 

found, 
And  joy  the  poet's  eye. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS  ; 

WITH  OTHER  POEMS. 


They  tell  but  dreams — a  lonely  spirit's  dreams; 
Yet  ever  through  their  fleeting  imagery 
Wanders  a  vein  of  melancholy  love, 
An  aimless  thought  of  home  ;  as  in  the  song 
Of  the  caged  skylark  ye  may  deem  there  dwells 
A  passionate  memory  of  blue  skies  and  flowers, 
And  living  streams,  far  off  I 


A  SPIRIT'S  RETURN. 

"  This  is  to  be  a  mortal, 
And  see  the  things  beyond  mortality !  " — MANFRED.     . 

THY  voice  prevails — dear  friend,  my  gentle  friend  I 
This  long-shut  heart  for  thee  shall  be  unsealed, 
And  though  thy  soft  eye  mournfully  will  bend 
Over  the  troubled  stream,  yet  once  revealed 
Shall  its  freed  waters  flow ;  then  rocks  must  close 
For  evermore,  above  their  dark  repose. 

Come  while  the  gorgeous  mysteries  of  the  sky 

Fused  in  the  crimson  sea  of  sunset  lie ; 

Come  to  the  woods,  where  all  strange  wandering  sound 

Is  mingled  into  harmony  profound ; 

Where  the  leaves  thrill  with  spirit,  while  the  wind 

Fills  with  a  viewless  being,  unconfined, 

The  trembling  reeds  and  fountains — our  own  dell, 

With  its  green  dimness  and  jfcolian  breath, 

Shall  suit  the  unveiling  of  dark  records  well — 

Hear  me  in  tenderness  and  silent  faith  ! 


SOMGS  OF  TttE  AFFECTIONS.  2ol 

Thou  knewest  me  not  in  life's  fresh  vernal  morn — 
I  would  thou  hadst ! — for  then  my  heart  on  thine 
Had  poured  a  worthier  love  ;  now,  all  o'erworn 
By  its  deep  thirst  for  something  too  divine, 
It  hath  but  fitful  music  to  bestow, 
Echoes  of  harp-strings  broken  long  ago. 
Yet  even  in  youth  companiohless  I  stood, 
As  a  lone  forest-bird  'midst  ocean's  foam; 
For  me  the  silver  cords  of  brotherhood 
.Were  early  loosed;  the  voices  from  my  home 
Passed  one  by  one,  and  melody  and  mirth 
Left  me  a  dreamer  by  a  silent  hearth. 

But,  with  the  fulness  of  a  heart  that  burned 
For  the  deep  sympathies  of  mind,  I  turned 
From  that  unanswering  spot,  and  fondly  sought 
In  all  wild  scenes  with  thrilling  murmurs  fraught, 
In  every  still  small  voice  and  sound  of  power, 
And  flute-note  of  the  wind  through  cave  and  bower, 
A  perilous  delight ! — for  then  first  woke 
My  life's  lone  passion,  the  mysterious  quest 
Of  secret  knowledge  ;  and  each  tone  that  broke 
From  the  wood-arches  or  the  fountain's  breast, 
Making  my  quick  soul  vibrate  as  a  lyre; 
But  ministered  to  that  strange  inborn  fire. 

'Midst  the  bright  silence  of  the  mountain  dells, 

In  noontide  hours  or  golden-summer  eves, 

My  thoughts  have  burst  forth  as  a  gale  that  swells 

Into  a  rushing  blast,  and  from  the  leaves 

Shakes  out  response.     O  thou  rich  world  unseen ! 

Thou  curtained  realm  of  spirits ! — thus  my  cry 

Hath  troubled  air  and  silence — dost  thou  lie 

Spread  all  around,  yet  by  some  filmly  screen 

Shut  from  us  ever  ?     The  resounding  woods, 

Do  their  depths  teem  with  marvels  ? — and  the  floods, 

And  the  pure  fountains,  leading  secret  veins 

Of  quenchless  melody  through  rock  and  hill, 

Have  they  bright  dwellers  ? — and  their  lone  domains 

Peopled  with  beauty,  which  may  never  still 

Our  weary  thirst  of  soul  ?     Cold,  weak  and  cold, 

Is  earth's  vain  language,  piercing  not  one  fold 

Of  our  deep  being !    Oh,  for  gifts  more  high  ! 

For  a  seer's  glance  to  rend  .mortality ! 

For  a  charmed  rod,  to  call  from  each  dark  shrine 

The  oracles  divine ! 

I  woke  from  those  high  fantasies,  to  know 
My  kindred  with  the  earth — I  woke  to  love: 
O  gentle  friend!  to  love  in  doubt  and  woe, 
Shutting  the  heart  the  Tirorshipped  name  above, 


202  SO A'CAS'  OF  THE  A  1<  SECTIONS. 

Is  to  love  deeply — and  my  spirit's  dower 

Was  a  sad  gift,  a  melancholy  power 

Of  so  adoring — with  a  buried  care, 

And  with  the  o'erflowing  of  a  voiceless  prayer, 

And  with  a  deepening  dream  that  day  by  day, 

In  the  still  shadow  of  its  lonely  sway, 

Folded  me  closer,  till  the  world  held  naught 

Save  the  one  being  to  my  centred  thought. 

There  was  no  music  but  his  voice  to  hear, 

No  joy  but  such  as  with  his  step  drew  near  ; 

Light  was  but  where  he  looked — life  where  he  moved s 

Silently,  fervently,  thus,  thus  I  loved. 

Oh  !  but  such  love  is  fearful ! — and  I  knew 

Its  gathering  doom  :  the  soul's  prophetic  sight 

Even  then  unfolded  in  my  breast,  and  threw 

O'er  all  things  round  a  full,  strong,  vivid  light, 

Too  sorrowfully  clear  ! — an  undertone 

Was  given  to  Nature's  harp,  for  me  alone 

Whispering  of  grief.    Of  grief  ?— be  strong,  awake  1 

Hath  not  thy  love  been  victory,  O  my  soul  ? 

Hath  not  its  conflict  won  its  voice  to  shake 

Death's  fastnesses  ? — a  magic  to  control 

Worlds  far  removed  ? — from  o'er  the  grave  to  thee 

Love  hath  made  answer  ;  and  thy  tale  should  be 

Sung  like  a  lay  of  triumph  !     Now  return, 

And  take  thy  treasure  from  its  bosomed  urn, 

And  lift  it  once  to  light ! 

In  fear,  in  pain, 

I  said  I  loved — but  yet  a  heavenly  strain 
Of  sweetness  floated  down  the  tearful  stream, 
A  joy  flashed  through  the  trouble  of  my  dream  I 
I  knew  myself  beloved  ! — we  breathed  no  vow, 
No  mingling  visions  might  our  fate  allow, 
As  unto  happy  hearts  ;  but  still  and  deep, 
Like  a  rich  jewel  gleaming  in  a  grave, 
Like  golden  sand  in  some  dark  river's  wave, 
So  did  my  soul  that  costly  knowledge  keep 
So  jealously  ! — a  thing  o'er  which  to  s"hed, 
When  stars  alone  beheld  the  drooping  head, 
Lone  tears  !  yet  ofttimes  burdened  with  the  excess 
Of  our  strange  nature's  quivering  happiness. 

But,  oh  !  sweet  friend !  we  dream  not  of  love's  might 
Till  death  has  robed  with  soft  and  solemn  light 
The  image  we  enshrine  ! — Before  that  hour, 
We  have  but  glimpses  of  the  o'ermastering  power 
Within  us  laid  ! — then  doth  the  spirit-flame 
With  sword-like  lightning  rend  its  mortal  frame; 
The  wings  of  that  which  pants  to  follow  fast 
Shake  their  clay-bars,  as  with  a  prisoned  blast—- 
The sea  is  in  our  souls  ! 


SOKGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  20$ 


He  died — he  died 

On  whom  my  lone  devotedness  was  cast ! 
I  might  not  keep  one  vigil  by  his  side, 
/,  whose  wrung  heart  watched  with  him  to  the  last ! 
I  might  not  once  his  fainting  head  sustain, 
Nor  bathed  his  parched  lips  in  the  hour  of  pain, 
Nor  say  to  him  "  Farewell  !  "     He  passed  away — 
Oh  !  had  -my  love  been  there,  its  conquering  sway 
Had  won  him  back  from  death  ! — but  thus  removed, 
Borne  o'er  the  abyss  no  sounding-line  hath  proved, 
Joined  with  the  unknown,  the  viewless — he  became 
Unto  my  thoughts  another,  yet  the  same — 
Changed — hallowed — glorified  ! — and  his  low  grave 
Seemed  a  bright  mournful  altar — mine,  all  mine  : — 
Brother  and  friend,  soon  left  me  that  sole  shrine, 
The  birthright  of  the  faithful ! — theit  world's  wave 
Soon  swept  them  from  its  brink.    Oh  I  deem  thou  not 
That  on  the  sad  and  consecrated  spot 
My  soul  grew  weak  !     I  tell  thee  that  a  power 
Their  kindled  heart  and  lip — a  fiery  shower 
My  words  were  made — a  might  was  given  to  prayer, 
And  a  strong  grasp  to  passionate  despair, 
And  a  dread  triumph  !     Knowest  thou  what  I  sought  ? 
For  what  high  boon  my  struggling  spirit  wrought  ? 
— Communion  with  the  dead  I — I  sent  a  cry 
Through  the  veiled  empires  of  eternity, 
A  voice  to  cleave  them !     By  the  mournful  truth, 
By  the  lost  promise  of  my  blighted  youth, 
By  the  strong  chain  a  mighty  love  can  bind 
On  the  beloved,  the  spell  of  mind  o'er  mind  ; 
By  words,  which  in  themselves  are  magic  high, 
Armed  and  inspired,  and  winged  with  agony; 
By  tears,  which  comfort  not,  but  burn,  and  seem 
To  bear  the  heart's  blood  in  their  passion-stream; 
I  summoned,  I  adjured — with  quickened  sense, 
With  the  keen  vigil  of  a  life  intense, 
I  watched,  an  answer  from  the  winds  to  wring, 
I  listened,  if  perchance  the  stream  might  bring 
Token  from  worlds  afar  :   I  taught  one  sound 
Unto  a  thousand  echoes — one  profound 
Imploring  accent  to  the  tomb,  the  sky — 
One  prayer  to-night — "  Awake,  appear,  reply  !  " 
Hast  thou  been  told  that  from  the  viewless  bourne, 
The  dark  way  never  hath  allowed  return? 
That  all,  which  tear^  can  move,  with  life  is  fled — 
That  earthless  love  is  powerless  on  the  dead  ? 
Believe  it  not ! — there  is  a  large  lone  star 
Now  burning  o'er  yon  western  hill  afar, 
And  under  its  clear  light  there  lies  a  spot 
Which  well  might  utter  forth — believe  it  not! 
I  sat  beneath  that  planet — I  had  wept 
My  woe  to  stillness,  every  night-wind  slept ; 


104  SO. \'GS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


A  hush  was  on  the  hills  :  the  very  streams 

Went  by  like  clouds,  or  noiseless  founts  in  dreams, 

And  the  dark  tree  o'ershadowing  me  that  hour, 

Stood  motionless,  even  as  the  gray  church-tower 

Whereon  I  gazed  unconsciously  : — there  came 

A  low  sound,  like  the  tremor  of  a  flame, 

Or  like  the  light  quick  shiver  of  a  wing, 

Flitting  through  twilight  woods,  across  the  air  ; 

And  I  looked  up  !     Oh  !  for  strong  words  to  bring 

Conviction  o'er  thy  thought !     Before  me  there, 

He,  the  departed,  stood  !  Ay,  face  to  face, 

So  near,  and  yet  how  far  t     His  form,  his  mien, 

Gave  to  remembrance  back  each  burning  trace 

Within  : — Yet  something  awfully  serene, 

Pure,  sculpture-like,  on  the  pale  brow, that  wore 

Of  the  once  beating  heart  no  token  more  ; 

And  stillness  on  the  lip — and  o'er  the  hair 

A  gleam,  that  trembled  through  the  breathless  air; 

And  an  unfathomed  calm,  that  seemed  to  lie 

In  the  grave  sweetness  of  the  illumined  eye; 

Told  of  the  gulfs  between  our  being  set, 

And,  as  that  unsheathed  spirit-glance  I  met, 

Made  mv  soul  faint : — withyJvzr  /     Oh  !  not  with  fearl 

With  the  sick  feeling  that  in  his  far  sphere 

My  love  could  be  as  nothing !     But  he  spoke — 

How  shall  I  tell  thee  of  the  startling  thrill 

In  that  low  voice,  whose  breezy  tones  could  fill 

My  bosom's  infinite  ?     O  friend!  I  woke 

Then  first  to  heavenly  life  !     Soft,  solemn,  clear, 

Breathed  the  mysterious  accents  on  mine  ear, 

Yet  strangely  seemed  as  if  the  while  they  rose 

From  depths  of  distance,  o'er  the  wide  repose 

Of  slumbering  waters  wafted,  or  the  dells 

Of  mountains,  hollow  with  sweet  echo-cells; 

But,  as  they  murmured  on,  the  mortal  chill 

Passed  from  me,  like  mist  before  the  morn, 

And,  to  that  glorious  intercourse  upborne 

By  slow  degrees,  a  calm,  divinely  still, 

Possessed  my  frame  : — I  sought  that  lighted  eye 

From  its  intense  and  searching  purity 

I  drank  in  soul ! — I  questioned  of  the  dead — 

Of  the  hushed,  starry  shores  their  footsteps  tread, 

And  I  was  answered.     If  remembrance  there. 

With  dreamy  whispers  fill  the  immortal  air  ; 

If  thought,  here  piled  from  many  a  jewel-heap, 

Be  treasure  in  that  pensive  land  to  keep  ; 

If  love,  o'er  sweeping  change,  and  blight,  and  blast, 

Find  there  the  music  of  his  home  at  last ; 

I  asked,  and  I  was  answered.     Full  and  high 

Was  that  communion  with  eternity, 

Too  rich  for  aught  so  fleeting  !     Like  a  knell 

Swept  o'er  my  sense  its  closing  words,  "  Farewell, 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  205 

On  earth  we  meet  no  more  !  "  And  all  was  gone — 

The  pale  bright  settled  brow — the  thrilling  tone, 

The  still  and  shining  eye  !  and  never  more 

May  twilight  gloom  or  midnight  hush  restore 

That  radiant  guest !     One  full-fraught  hour  of  heaven, 

To  earthly  passion's  wild  implorings  given, 

Was  made  my  own — the  ethereal  fire  hath  shivered 

The  fragile  censer  in  whose  mould  it  quivered, 

Brightly,  consuming]}' !     What  now  is  left  ? 

A  faded  world,  of  glory's  hues  bereft — 

A  void,  a  chain !     I  dwell  'midst  throngs,  apart, 

In  the  cold  silence  of  the  stranger's  heart ; 

A  fixed,  immortal  shadow  stands  between 

My  spirit  and  life's  fast-receding  scene  ; 

A  gift  hath  severed  me  from  human  ties, 

A  power  is  gone  from  all  earth's  melodies, 

Which  never  may  return  :  their  chords  are  broken, 

The  music  of  another  land  hath  spoken — 

No  after-sound  is  sweet !     This  weary  thirst  1 

And  I  have  heard  celestial  fountains  burst ! — 

What  here  shall  quench  it? 

Dost  thou  not  rejoice, 

When  the  spring  sends  forth  an  awakening  voice 
Through  the  young  woods?     Thou  dost !     And  in  that  birth 
Of  early  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  songs  of  mirth, 
Thousands,  like  thee,  find  gladness!     Couldst  thou  know 
How  every  breeze  then  summons  me  to  go  1 
How  all  the  light  of  love  and  beauty  shed 
By  those  rich  hours,  but  wooes  me  to  the  dead ! 
The  only  beautiful  that  change  no  more — 
The  only  loved ! — the  dwellers  on  the  shore 
Of  spring  fulfilled  !     The  dead  ! — whom  call  \ve  so  ? 
They  that  breathe  purer  air,  that  feel,  that  know 
Things  wrapt  from  us  !     Away  ! — within  me  pent, 
That  which  is  barred  from  its  own  element 
Still  drops  or  struggles  !     But  the  day  will  come — 
Over  the  deep  the  free  bird  finds  its  home, 
And  the  stream  lingers  'midst  the  rocks,  yet  greets 
The  sea  at  last !  and  the  winged  flower-seed  meets 
A  soil  to  rest  in  :   shall  not  /,  too,  be, 
My  spirit-love  !  upborne  to  dwell  with  thee  ? 
Yes  !  by  the  power  whose  conquering  anguish  stirred 
The  tomb,  whose  cry  beyond  the  stars  was  heard, 
Whose  agony  of  triumph  won  thee  back 
Through  the  dim  pass  no  mortal  step  may  track, 
Yet  shall  we  meet !— that  glimpse  of  joy  divine 
Proved  thee  forever  and  forever  mine ! 


«06  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  LADY  OF  PROVENCE.* 

"  Courage  was  cast  about  her  like  a  dress 

Of  solemn  comeliness, 
A  gathered  mind  and  an  untroubled  face 
Did  give  her  dangers  grace." — DONNE. 

THE  war-note  of  the  Saracen 

Was  on  the  winds  of  France  ; 
It  had  stilled  the  harp  of  the  Troubadour, 

And  the  clash  of  the  tourney's  lance. 

The  sounds  of  the  sea,  and  the  sounds  of  the  night, 
And  the  hollow  echoes  of  charge  and  flight, 
Were  around  Clotilde,  as  she  knelt  to  pray 
In  a  chapel  where  the  mighty  lay, 

On  the  old  Proven9al  shore ; 
Many  a  Chatillon  beneath, 
Unstirred  by  the  ringing  trumpet's  breath, 

His  shroud  of  armor  wore. 

And  the  glimpses  of  moonlight  that  went  and  came 
Through  the  clouds,  like  bursts  of  a  dying  flame, 
Gave  quivering  life  to  the  slumber  pale 
Of  stern  forms  crouched  in  their  marble  mail, 
At  rest  on  the  tombs  of  the  knightly  race, 
The  silent  throngs  of  that  burial-place. 

They  were  imaged  there  with  helm  and  spear, 
As  leaders  in  many  a  bold  career — 
And  haughty  their  stillness  looked  and  high, 
Like  a  sleep  whose  dreams  were  of  victory. 
But  meekly  the  voice  of  the  lady  rose 
Through  the  trophies  of  their  proud  repose  ; 
Meekly,  yet  fervently,  calling  down  aid, 
Under  their  banners  of  battle  she  prayed ; 
With  her  pale  fair  brow,  and  her  eyes  of  love, 
Upraised  to  the  Virgin's  portrayed  above, 
And  her  hair  flung  back,  till  it  swept  the  grave 
Of  a  Chatillon  with  its  gleamy  wave. 
And  her  fragile  frame,  at  every  blast, 
That  full  of  the  savage  war-horn  passed, 
Trembling,  as  trembles  a  bird's  quick  heart, 
When  it  vainly  strives  from  its  cage  to  part — 

So  knelt  she  in  her  woe  ; 
A  weeper  alone  with  the  tearless  dead — 
Oh !  they  reck  not  of  tears  o'er  their  quiet  shed, 

Or  the  dust  that  stirred  below  1 

Hark  !  a  swift  step  !  she  had  caught  its  tone, 

Through  the  dash  of  the  sea,  through  the  wild  wind's  moan 


1  Founded  on  an  incident  iu  the  early  French  history. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  207 

Is  her  lord  returned  with  his  conquering  bands  ? 

No  !  a  breathless  vassal  before  her  stands  I 

— "  Hast  thou  been  on  the  field  ? — Art  thou  come  from  the  host  ?  " 

— "  From  the  slaughter,  lady  ! — All,  all  is  lost  1 

Our  banners  are  taken,  our  knights  laid  low, 

Our  spearmen  chased  by  the  Paynim  foe  ; 

And  thy  lord,"  his  voice  took  a  sadder  sound — 

"  Thy  lord — he  is  not  on  the  bloody  ground  ! 

There  are  those  who  tell  that  the  leader's  plume 

Was  seen  on  the  flight  through  the  gathering  gloom." 

— A  change  o'er  her  mien  and  her  spirit  passed; 

She  ruled  the  heart  which  had  beat  so  fast, 

She  dashed  the  tears  from  her  kindling  eye, 

With  a  glance,  as  of  sudden  royalty  : 

The  proud  blood  sprang  in  a  fiery  flow, 

Quick  o'er  bosom,  and  cheek,  ami  brow, 

And  her  young  voice  rose  till  the  peasant  shook 

At  the  thrilling  tone  and  the  falcon-look  : 

— "  Dost  thou  stand  by  the  tombs  of  the  glorious  dead, 

And  fear  not  to  say  that  their  son  hath  fled  ? 

Away  !  he  is  lying  by  lance  and  shield, — 
Point  me  ihe  path  to  his  battle-field ! " 

The  shadows  of  the  forest 
Are  about  the  lady  now  ; 

She  is  hurrying  through  the  midnight  on, 

Beneath  the  dark  pine-bough. 
There's  a  murmur  of  omens  in  every  leaf, 
There's  a  wail  in  the  stream  like  the  dirge  of  a  chief; 
The  branches  that  rock  to  the  tempest  strife 
Are  groar.ing  like  things  of  troubled  life  ; 
The  wind  from  the  battle  seems  rushing  by 
With  a  funeral-march  through  the  gloomy  sky; 
The  pathway  is  rugged,  and  wild,  and  long, 
But  her  fame  in  the  daring  of  love  is  strong, 
And  her  soul  as  on  swelling  seas  upborne, 
And  girded  all  fearful  things  to  scorn. 

And  fearful  things  were  around  her  spread, 

When  she  reached  the  field  of  the  warrior  dead ; 

There  lay  the  noble,  the  valiant,  low — 

Ay !  but  one  word  speaks  of  deeper  woe  ; 

There  lay  the  Imvit — on  each  fallen  head 

Mothers'  vain  blessings  and  tears  had  shed ; 

Sisters  were  watching  in  many  a  home 

For  the  fettered  footstep,  no  more  to  come  ; 

Names  in  the  prayer  of  that  night  were  spoken, 

Whose  claim  unto  kindred  prayer  was  broken  ; 

And  the  tire  was  heaped,  and  the  bright  wine  poured 

For  those,  now  needing  nor  hearth  nor  board; 

Only  a  requiem,  a  shroud,  a  knell, 

And  oh  !  ye  beloved  of  women,  farewell ' 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Silently,  with  lips  compressed, 
Pale  hands  clasped  above  her  breast, 
Stately  brow  of  anguish  high, 
Deathlike  cheek,  but  dauntless  eye; 
Silently,  o'er  that  red  plain, 
Moved  the  lady  'midst  the  slain. 

Sometimes  it  seemed  as  a  charging  cry, 
Or  the  ringing  tramp  of  a  steed  came  nigh ; 
Sometimes  a  blast  of  the  Paynim  horn, 
Sudden  and  shrill  from  the  mountains  borne  ; 
And  her  maidens  trembled  ; — but  on  her  ear 
No  meaning  fell  with  those  sounds  of  fear ; 
They  had  less  of  mastery  to  shake  her  now, 
Than  the  quivering,  erewhile,  of  an  aspen-bough. 
She  searched  into  many  an  unclosed  eye, 
That  looked,  without  soul,  to  the  starry  sky; 
She  bowed  down  o'er  many  a  shattered  breast, 
She  lifted  up  helmet  and  cloven  crest — 

Not  there,  not  there  he  lay  ! 
"  Lead  where  the  most  hath  been  dared  and  done, 
Where  the  heart  of  the  battle  hath  bled — lead  on!" 

And  the  vassal  took  the  way. 

He  turned  to  a  dark  and  lonely  tree 

That  waved  o'er  a  fountain  red ; 
Oh  !  swiftest  there  had  the  currents  free 

From  noble  veins  been  shed. 

Thickest  there  the  spear-heads  gleamed, 
And  the  scattered  plumage  streamed, 
And  the  broken  shields  were  tossed, 
And  the  shivered  lances  crossed, 
And  the  mail-clad  sleepers  round 
Made  the  harvest  of  that  ground. 

He  was  there  !  the  leader  amidst  his  band 
Where  the  faithful  had  made  their  last  vain  stand  j 
He  was  there  !  but  affection's  glance  alone 
The  darkly-changed  in  that  hour  had  known  ; 
With  the  falchion  yet  in  his  cold  hand  grasped, 
And  a  banner  of  France  to  his  bosom  clasped, 
And  the  form  that  of  conflict  bore  fearful  trace, 
And  the  face — oh  !  speak  not  of  that  dead  face  I 
As  it  lay  to  answer  love's  look  no  more, 
Yet  never  so  proudly  loved  before  ! 

She  quelled  in  her  soul  the  deep  floods  of  woe, 
The  time  was  not  yet  for  their  waves  to  flow  ; 
She  felt  the  full  presence,  the  might  of  death, 
Yet  there  came  no  sob  with  her  struggling  breath, 


"  He  was  there !  the  leader  amidst  his  band, 
Where  the  faithful  had  made  their  last  vain  stand ; " 

Page  208, 


SOJVGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  209 


And  a  proud  smile  shone  o'er  her  pale  despair, 
As  she  turned  to  his  follower — "  Your  lord  is  there! 
Look  on  him  !  know  him  by  scarf  and  crest ! — 
Bear  him  away  with  his  sires  to  rest  I  " 

Another  day,  another  night, 

And  the  sailor  on  the  deep 
Hears  the  low  chant  of  a  funeral  rite 

From  the  lordly  chapel  sweep. 

It  comes  with  a  broken  and  muffled  tone, 

As  if  that  rite  were  in  terror  done  : 

Yet  the  song  'midst  the  seas  hath  a  thrilling  power, 

And  he  knows  'tis  a  chieftain's  burial  hour. 

Hurriedly,  in  fear  and  woe, 

Through  the  aisle  the  mourners  go; 

With  a  hushed  and  stealthy  tread, 

Bearing  on  the  noble  dead  ; 

Sheathed  in  armor  of  the  field — 

Only  his  wan  face  revealed, 

Whence  the  still  and  solemn  gleam 

Doth  a  strange  sad  contrast  seem 

To  the  anxious  eyes  ot  that  pale  band, 

With  torches  wavering  in  every  hand, 

For  they  dread  each  moment  the  shout  of  war, 

And  the  burst  of  the  Moslem  cimeter. 

There  is  no  plumed  head  o'er  the  bier  to  bend, 
No  brother  of  battle,  no  princely  friend  : 
No  sound  comes  back  like  the  sounds  of  yore, 
Unto  sweeping  swords  from  the  marble  floor ; 
By  the  red  fountain  the  valiant  lie, 
The  flower  of  Proven9al  chivalry ; 
But  one  free  step,  and  one  lofty  heart, 
Bear  through  that  scene  to  the  last  their  part 

She  hath  led  the  death-train  of  the  brave 

To  the  verge  of  his  own  ancestral  grave ; 

She  hath  held  o'er  her  spirit  long  rigid  sway, 

But  the  struggling  passion  must  now  have  way; 

In  the  cheek,  half  seen  through  her  mourning  veil, 

By  turns  does  the  swift  blood  flush  and  fail  ; 

The  pride  on  the  lip  is  lingering  still, 

But  it  shakes  as  a  flame  to  the  blast  might  thrill ; 

Anguish  and  triumph  are  met  at  strife, 

Rending  the  cords  of  her  frail  young  life ; 

And  she  sinks  at  last  on  her  warrior's  bier, 

Lifting  her  voice,  as  if  death  might  hear. 

"  I  have  won  thy  fame  from  the  breath  of  wrong, 

My  soul  hath  risen  for  thy  glory  strong  f 


210 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Now  call  me  hence,  by  thy  side  to  be, 
The  world  thou  leavest  has  no  place  for  me. 
The  light  goes  with  thee,  the  joy,  the  worth — 
Faithful  and  tender  1    Oh  !  call  me  forth  J 

Give  me  my  home  on  thy  noble  heart, — 
Well  have  we  loved,  let  us  both  depart!"— 
And  pale  on  the  breast  of  the  dead  she  lay, 
The  living  cheek  to  the  cheek  of  clay  ; 
The  living  cheek  ! — Oh  !  it  was  not  vain, 
That  strife  of  the  spirit  to  rend  its  chain  ; 
She  is  there  at  rest  in  her  place  of  pride, 
In  death  how  queen-like — a  glorious  bride ! 

Joy  for  the  freed  one  ! — she  might  not  stay 

When  the  crown  had  fallen  from  her  life  away  ; 

She  might  not  linger — a  wearv  thing, 

A  dove  with  no  home  for  its  broken  wing, 

Thrown  on  the  harshness  of  alien  skies 

That  know  not  its  own  land's  melodies. 

From  the  long  heart-withering  early  gone  ; 

She  hath  lived — she  hath  loved — her  task  is  done ! 


THE  CORONATION  OF  INEZ  DE  CASTRO. 


"  Tableau,  ou  1'  Amour  fait  alliance  avec  la  Tombe  ;  union  redoutable  de  la  mort  et  de  la  vie  ! 
—MADAME  DB  STAEL. 


THERE  was  music  on  the  midnight : 

From  a  royal  fane  it  rolled, 
And  a  mighty  bell,  each  pause  between, 

Sternly  and  slowly  tolled. 
Strange  was  their  mingling  in  the  sky, 

It  hushed  the  listener's  breath  ; 
For  the  music  spoke  of  triumph  high, 

The  lonely  bell,  of  death. 

There  was  hurrying  through  the  mid- 
night 

A  sound  of  many  feet ; 
But  they  fell  with  a  muffled  fearfulness 

Along  the  shadowy  street  : 
And  softer,  fainter,  grew  their  tread, 

As  it  neared  the  minster  gate, 
Whence  a  broad  and  solemn  light  was 
shed 

From  a  scene  of  royal  state. 


Full  glowed  the  strong  red  radiance 

In  the  centre  of  the  nave, 
Where  the  folds  of  a  purple  canopy 

Swept  down  in  many  a  wave  ; 
Loading  the  marble  pavement  old 

With  a  weight  of  gorgeous  gloom, 
For  something  lay  'midst  their  fretteo 
gold, 

Like  a  shadow  of  the  tomb. 


And  within  that  rich  pavilion, 

High  on  a  glittering  throne, 
A  woman's  form  sat  silently 

'Midst  the  glare  of  light  alone. 
Her  jewelled  robes  fell  strangely  still— 

The  drapery  on  her  breast 
Seemed  with  no  pulse  beneath  to  thrill 

So  stonelike  was  its  rest ' 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


21) 


But  a  peal  of  lordly  music 

Shook  e'en  the  dust  below, 
When  the  burning  gold  ofc  the  diadem 

Was  sat  on  her  pallid  brow ! 
Then  died  away  that  haughty  sound, 

And  from  the  encircling  band 
Stepped   prince  and  chief,  "midst  the 

hush  profound, 
With  homage  to  her  hand. 

Why  passed  a  faint,  cold  shuddering 

Over  each  martial  frame, 
As  one  by  one,  to  touch  that  hand, 

Noble  and  leader  came  ? 
Was  not  the  settled  aspect  fair? 

Did  not  a  queenly  grace, 
Under  the  parted  ebon  hair, 

Sit  on  the  pale  still  face  ? 

Death  !  death  !  canst  thou  be  ovely 

Unto  the  eye  of  life  ? 
Is  not  each  pulse  of  the  quick  high 
breast 

With  thy  cold  mien  at  strife  ? 
— It  was  a'strange  and  fearful  sight, 

The  crown  upon  that  head, 
The  glorious  robes,  and  the  blaze  of 
light, 

All  gathered  round  the  Dead ! 

And  beside  her  stood  in  silence 

One  with  a  brow  as  pale, 
*d  white  lips  rigidly  compressed, 

Lest  the  strong  heart  should  fail  : 
King  Pedro,  with  a  jealous  eye, 

Watching  the  homage  done, 
By  the  land's  flower  and  chivalry, 

To  her,  his  martyred  one. 

But  on  the  face  he  looked  not, 
Which  once  his  star  had  been ; 


To  every  form  his  glance  was  turned, 

Save  of  the  breathless  queen  : 
Though  something, won  from  the  grave's 

embrace, 

Of  her  beauty  still  was  there, 
Its   hues  were   all   of    that    shaaowj 

place, 
It  was  not  for  him  to  bear. 

Alas  !  the  crown,  the  sceptre, 

The  treasures  of  the  earth, 
And   the  princeless  love  that  poured 
those  gifts, 

Alike  of  wasted  worth ! 
The  rites  are  closed — bear  back  the  dead 

Unto  the  chamber  deep  ! 
Lay  down  again  the  royal  head, 

Dust  with  the  dust  to  sleep  ! 

There  is  music  on  the  midnight — 

A  requiem  sad  and  slow, 
As  the  mourners  through  the  sounding 

aisle 

In  dark  procession  go ; 
And  the  ring  of  state,  and  the  starry 

crown, 

And  all  the  rich  array, 
Are  borne   to    the  house  of    silence 

down, 
With  her,  that  queen  of  clay! 

And  tearlessly  and  firmly 

King  Pedro  led  the  train  ; 
But  his  face  was  wrapt  in  his  folding 
robe, 

When  they  lowered  the  dust  again. 
'Tis  hushed  at  last  the  tomb  above, 

Hymns  die,  and  steps  depart : 
Who  called  thee   strong   as   Death,  0 
Love  ? 

Mightier  thou  wast  and  art. 


212 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


ITALIAN  GIRL'S  HYMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

"  O  sanctissima,  O  purissima  1 

Dulcis  Virgo  Maria, 

Mater  amata,  intemerata, 

Ora,  ora  pro  nobis." 

Sicilian  Mariner's  Hymn. 


IN  the  deep  hour  of  dreams, 
Through  the  dark  woods,  and  past  the 
moaning  sea, 

And  by  the  star-light  gleams, 
Mother  of  sorrows  !  lo,  I  come  to  thee  ! 

Unto  thy  shrine  1  bear 
Night  blowing    flowers,   like  my  own 

heart,  to  lie 
All,  all  unfolded  there, 
Beneath  the  meekness  of  thy  pitying 
eye. 

For  thou,  that  once  didst  move, 
In    thy  still  beauty,  through  an  early 

home, 

Thou  knowest  the  grief,  the  love, 
The  fear  of  woman's  soul ; — to  thee  1 
come ! 

Many,  and  sad,  and  deep, 
Were  the  thoughts  folded  in  thy  silent 

breast ; 

Thou,  too,  couldst  watch  and  weep — 
Hear,  gentlest  mother  1   hear  a  heart 
oppressed  \ 

There  is  a  wandering  bark 
Bearing  one  from  me  o'er  the  restless 

wave  : 

Oh  !  let  thy  soft  eye  mark 
His  course: — be  with  him,  holiest,  guide 
and  save ! 

My  soul  is  on  thai  way  ; 
My  thoughts  are  travellers   o'er  the 
waters  dim; 


Through  the  long  weary  day 
I  walk,  o'er  shadowed  by  vain  dreams 
of  him. 

Aid  him — and  me,  too,  aid  ! 
Oh !    'tis  not  well,  this  earthly  love's 
excess ! 

On.  thy  weak  child  is  laid 
The  burden  of  too  deep  a  tenderness. 

Too  much  o'er  him  is  poured 
My  being's  hope — scarce  leaving  Hea- 
ven a  part ; 
Too  faithfully  adored, 
Oh  !  make  not  him  the  chastener  of  my 
heart ! 

I  tremble  with  a  sense 

Of  grief  to  be  ; — I  hear  a  warning  low- 
Sweet  mother  !  call  me  hence  ! 

This  wild  idolatry  must  end  in  woe. 

The  troubled  joy  of  life, 
Love's    lightning   happiness,   my   soul 

hath  known ; 

And,  worn  with  feverish  strife, 
Would  fold  its  wings  ;  take  back,  take 
back  thine  own  ! 

Hark  !  how  the  wind  swept  by ! 
The  tempest's  voice  comes  rolling  o'er 

the  wave — 

Hope  of  the  sailor's  eye, 
And  maiden's  heart,  blest  mother,  guide 
and  save  1 


TO  A  DEPARTED  SPIRIT. 

FROM  the  bright  stars,  or  from  the  viewless  air, 
Or  from  some  world  unreached  by  human  thought, 
Spirit,  sweet  spirit !  if  thy  home  be  there, 
And  if  thy  visions  with  the  past  be  fraught, 

Answer  me,  answer  rne  I 


SOA'GS  Of  THE  AFFECTIONS.  313 

Have  we  not  communed  here  of  life  and  death? 
Have  we  not  said  that  love,  such  love  as  ours, 
Was  not  to  perish  as  a  rose's  breath, 
To  melt  away,  like  song  from  festal  bowers  ? 

Answer,  oh !  answer  me  ! 

Thine  eye's  last  light  was  mine — the  soul  that  shone 
Intensely,  mournfully,  through  gathering  haze — 
Didst  thou  bear  with  thee  to  the  shore  unknown, 
Nought  of  what  lived  in  that  long,  earnest  gaze  ! 
Hear,  hear,  and  answer  me  t 

Thy  voice — its  low,  soft,  fervent,  farewell  tone 
Thrilled  though  the  tempest  of  the  parting  strife, 
Like  a  faint  breeze  : — oh,  from  that  music  flown, 
Send  back  one  sound,  if  love's  be  quenchless  life, 
But  once,  oh  !  answer  me ! 

In  the  still  noontide,  in  the  sunset's  hush, 
In  the  dead  hour  of  night,  when  thought  grows  deep, 
When  the  heart's  phantoms  from  the  darkness  rush, 
Fearfully  beautiful,  to  strive  with  sleep—- 
Spirit! then  answer  me ! 

By  the  remembrance  of  our  blended  prayer ; 
By  all  our  tears,  whose  mingling  made  them  sweet 
By  our  last  hope,  the  victor  o'er  despair  ; — 
Speak  !  if  our  souls  in  deathless  yearnings  meet ; 
Answer  me,  answer  me  I 

The  grave  is  silent : — and  the  far-off  sky, 
And  the  deep  midnight — silent  all,  and  lone  ! 
Oh  !  if  thy  buried  love  make  no  reply, 
What  voice  has  earth  ! — Hear,  pity,  speak,  mine  own  1 
Answer  me,  answer  me  1 


THE  CHAMOIS  HUNTER'S  LOVE. 

'•  For  all  his  wildness  and  proud  phantasies, 
I  love  him  !  " — CROLV. 

THY  heart  is  in  the  upper  world,  where  fleet  the  chamois  bounds ; 
Thy  heart  is  where  the  mountain-fir  shakes  to  the  torrent  sounds ; 
And  where  the  snow-peaks  gleam  like  stars,  through  the  stillness  of  the  air 
And  where  the  Lauwine's1  peal  is  heard — Hunter  I  thy  heart  is  there  ! 

I  know  thou  lovest  me  well,  dear  friend  !  but  better,  better  far, 
Thou  lovest  that  high  and  haughty  life,  with  rocks  and  storms  at  war; 
In  the  green  sunny  vales  with  me,  thy  spirit  would  but  pine, 
And  yet  I  will  be  thine,  my  love  !  and  yet  I  will  be  thine  1 

[     l  Lau'.uine,  the  avalanche. 


SOtfGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


And  I  will  not  seek  to  woo  thee  down  from  those  thy  native  heights, 
With  the  sweet  song,  our  land's  own  song,  of  pastoral  delights  ; 
For  thou  must  live  as  eagles  live,  thy  path  is  not  as  mine, 
And  yet  I  will  be  thine,  my  love  !  and  yet  I  will  be  thine  ! 

And  I  will  leave  my  blessed  home,  my  father's  joyous  hearth, 
With  all  the  voices  meeting  there  in  tenderness  and  mirth, 
With  all  the  kind  and  laughing  eyes  that  in  its  firelight  shine, 
To  sit  forsaken  in  thy  hut,  yet  know  that  thou  art  mine  ! 

It  is  my  youth,  it  is  my  bloom,  it  is  my  glad  free  heart, 
That  I  cast  away  for  thee — for  thee,  all  reckless  as  thou  art  \ 
With  tremblings  and  with  vigils  lone,  I  bind  myself  to  dwell, 
Yet,  yet  I  would  not  change  that  lot,  oh  no  !  I  love  too  well ! 

A  mournful  thing  is  love  which  grows  to  one  so  wild  as  thou, 
With  that  bright  restlessness  of  eye,  that  tameless  fire  of  brow ! 
Mournful ! — but  dearer  far  I  call  its  mingled  fear  and  pride, 
And  the  trouble  of  its  happiness,  than  aught  on  earth  beside. 

To  listen  for  thy  step  in  vain,  to  start  at  every  breath, 

To  watch  through  long  long  nights  of  storm,  to  sleep  and  dream  of  death, 

To  wake  in  doubt  and  loneliness — this  doom  I  know  is  mine, 

And  yet  I  will  be  thine,  my  love !  and  yet  I  will  be  thine  ! 

That  I  may  greet  thee  from  thine  Alps,  when  thence  thou  comest  at  last, 
That  I  may  hear  thy  thrilling  voice  tell  o'er  each  danger  past, 
That  I  may  kneel  and  pray  for  thee,  and  win  thee  aid  divine— 
For  this  I  will  be  thine,  my  love !  for  this  I  will  be  thine  I 


THE  INDIAN  WITH  HIS  DEAD  CHILD.1 


IN  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

I  journey  with  my  dead  ; 
In  the  darkness  of  the  forest-boughs 

A  lonely  path  I  tread. 

But  my  heart  is  high  and  fearless, 
As  by  mighty  wings  upborne  ; 

The  mountain  eagle  hath  not  plumes 
So  strong  as  love  and  scorn. 

I  have  raised  thee  from  the  grave-sod, 
By  the  white  man's  path  defiled  ; 


On  to  the  ancestral  wilderness 
I  bear  thy  dust,  my  child ! 

I  have  asked  the  ancient  deserts 

To  give  my  dead  a  place, 
Where  the  stately  footsteps  of  the  fre*. 

Alone  should  leave  a  trace. 

And  the  tossing  pines  made  answer — 
"Go,  bring  us  back  thine  own  i" 

And  the  streams  from  all  the  hunter. ' 

hills 
Rushed  with  an  echoing  tone. 


1  An  Indian,  who  had  established  himself  in  a  township  of  Maine,  feeling  indign.ini'y  tlic 
want  of  sympathy  evinced  towards  him  by  the  white  inhabitants,  particularly  on  the  death  <  f  his 
only  child,  gave  up  his  farm  soon  afterwards,  dug  up  the  body  of  his  child,  and  carried  it  with 
him  two  hundred  miles  through  the  forests  to  join  the  Canadian  Indians. — See  TITDOB'S  Lftttrt 
<M  tht  Eastern  States  of  Amtrica* 


SOA'GS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Thou  «halt  rest  by  sounding  waters 
That  yet  untamed  may  roll ; 

The  voices  of  that  chainless  host 
With  joy  shall  fill  thy  soul. 

In  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

I  journey  with  the  dead, 
Where  the  arrows  of  my  father's  bow 

Their  falcon  flight  have  sped. 

[  have  left  the  spoilers'  dwellings 

For  evermore  behind  ;    ' 
Unmingled  with  their  household  sounds, 

For  me  shall  sweep  the  wind. 

Alone,  amidst  their  hearth-fires, 
I  watched  my  child's  decay ; 

Uncheered,  I  saw  the  spirit-light 
From  his  young  eyes  fade  away. 


When  his  head  sank  on  my  bosom, 

When  the  death-sleep  o'er  him  fell. 
Was  there  one   to  say,  "A  friend  is 
near?"  [well! 

There  was   none ! — pale   race,   fare- 
To  the  forests,  to  the  cedars, 

To  the  warrior  and  his  bow, 
Back,    back!— I    bore    thee    laughing 
thence, 

I  bear  thee  slumbering  now ! 

I  bear  thee  unto  burial 

With  the  mighty  hunters  gone ; 
I  shall  hear  thee  in  the  forest-breeze, 

Thou  wilt  speak  of  joy,  my  son ! 

In  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

I  journey  wi:h  ihe  dead; 
But  my  heart  is  strong,  my  step  is 

My  father's  path  I  tread. 


SONG  OF  EMIGRATION. 


THERE  was  heard  a  song  on  the  chiming  sea, 

A  mingled  breathing  of  grief  and  glee  ; 

Man's  voice,  unbroken  by  sighs,  was  there, 

Filling  with  triumph  the  sunny  air  ; 

Of  fresh  green  lands,  and  of  pastures  new, 

It  sang,  while  the  bark  through  the  surges  flew. 

But  ever  and  anon 

A  murmur  of  farewell 
Told,  by  its  plaintive  tone, 

That  from  woman's  lip  it  fell 

1  Away,  away  o'er  the  foaming  main  !  " 
This  was  the  free  and  the  joyous  strain  ; 

'There  are  clearer  skies  than  ours,  afar, 
We  will  shape  our  course  by  a  brighter  star  •, 
There  are  plains  whose  verdure  no  foot  hath  pressed 
And  whose  wealth  is  all  for  the  first  brave  guest" 

"But,  alas  !  that  we  should  go," 

Sang  the  farewell  voices  then, 
**From  the  homesteads,  warm  and  low, 

By  the  brook  and  in  the  glen  1 " 


2l6  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS, 


"  We  will  rear  new  homes  under  trees  that  glow, 
As  if  gems  were  the  fruitage  of  every  bough  ; 
O'er  our  white  walls  we  will  train  the  vine, 
And  sit  in  its  shadow  at  day's  decline  ; 
And  watch  our  herds,  as  they  range  at  will 
Through  the  green  savannas,  all  bright  and  stilL 

"  But  woe  for  that  sweet  shade 

Of  the  flowering  orchard  trees, 
Where  first  our  children  played 
'Midst  the  birds  and  honey-bees ! " 

"All,  all  our  own  shall  the  forests  be, 
As  to  the  bound  of  the  roebuck  free ! 
None  shall  say,  '  Hither,  no  further  pass!' 
We  will  track  each  step  through  the  wavy  grass; 
We  will  chase  the  elk  in  his  speed  and  might, 
And  bring  proud  spoils  to  the  hearth  at  night." 

"  But,  oh  !  the  gray  church  tower, 

And  the  sound  of  Sabbath-bell, 
And  the  sheltered\garden  bower, 
We  have  bid  them  all  farewell !  " 

"We  will  give  the  names  of  our  fearless  race 
To  each  bright  river  whose  course  we  trace  ; 
We  will  leave  our  memory  with  mounts  and  flooa. 
And  the  path  of  our  daring  in  boundless  woods  ! 
And  our  works  unto  many  a  lake's  green  shore, 
Where  the  Indians'  graves  lay,  alone,  before." 

"  But  who  shall  teach  the  flowers 

Which  our  children  loved,  to  dwell, 
In  a  soil  that  is  not  ours  ? 
—Home,  home  and  friends,  farewell  I " 


THE  KING  OF  ARRAGON'S  LAMENT  FOR  HIS  BROTHER 

"  If  I  could  see  him,  it  were  well  with  me." 

COLERIDGE'S  Wallenstein. 

THERE  were  lights  and  sounds  of  revelling  in  the  vanquished  city's  halls, 
As  by  night  the  feast  of  victory  was  held  within  its  walls, 

And  the  conquerors  filled  the  wine-cup  high,  after  years  of  bright  blood  shed  ; 
Iftit  their  lord,  the  King  of  Arragon,  'midst  the  triumph,  wailed  the  dead. 

1  The  grief  of  Ferdinand,  King  of  Arragon,  for  the  losg  of  his  brother,  Don  Pedro,  who  was 
killtd  during  the  siege  of  Naples,  is  affectingly  described  by  the  historian  Mariana.  It  is  alas 
the  subject  of  one  of  the  old  Spanish  Ballads  in  Lockhart's  beautiful  collection. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AfFECTIONS.  21 7 


He  looked  down  from  the  fortress  won,  on  the  tents  and  towers  below, 
The  moonlit  sea,  the  torch'.it  streets — and  a  gloom  came  o'er  his  brow  : 
The  voice  of  thousands  floated  up,  with  the  horn  and  cymbal's  tone; 
But  his  heart,  'midst  that  proud  music,  felt  more  utterly  alone. 

And  he  cried,  "  Thou  art  mine,  fair  city !  thou  city  of  the  sea! 
But,  oh  !  what  portion  of  delight  is  mine  at  last  in  thee  ?— 
I  am  lonely  'midst  thy  palaces,  while  the  glad  waves  past  them  roll. 
And  the  soft  breath  of  thine  orange-bowers  is  mournful  to  my  soul. 

"  My  brother  !  oh,  my  brother  !  thou  art  gone — the  true  and  brave, 
And  the  haughty  joy  of  victory  hath  died  upon  thy  grave  ; 
There  are  many  round  my  throne  to  stand,  and  to  march  where  I  lead  on  : 
There  was  one  to  love  me  in  the  world — my  brother  !  thou  ait  gone  < 

"  In  the  desert,  in  the  battle,  in  the  ocean-tempest's  wrath. 

We  stood  together,  side  by  side  ;  one  hope  was  ours — one  path  ; 

Thou  hast  wrapped  me  in  thy  soldier's  cloak,  thou  hast  fenced  me  •with  thj 

breast ; 
Thou  hast  watched  beside  my  couch  of  pain — oh  I  bravest  heart,  and  1'est  I 

"  I  see  the  festive  lights  around — o'er  a  dull  sad  world  they  shine  ; 
I  hear  the  voice  of  victory — my  Pedro !  where  is  thine  ? 
The  only  voice  in  whose  kind  tone  my  spirit  found  reply ! — 
Oh,  brother  I  I  have  bought  too  dear  this  hollow  pageantry  ! 

"  I  have  hosts,  and  gallant  fleets,  to  spread  my  glory  and  my  sway, 
And  chiefs  to  lead  them  fearlessly — my  friend  hath  passed  away  ! 
For  the  kindly  look,  the  word  of  cheer,  my  heart  may  thirst  in  vain, 
And  the  face  that  was  as  light  to  mine — it  cannot  come  again  1 

"  I  have  made  thy  blood,  thy  faithful  blood,  the  offering  for  a  crown  ; 
With  love,  which  earth  bestows  not  twice,  I  have  purchased  cold  renown ; 
How  often  wi'ii  my  weary  heart  'midst  the  sounds  of  triumph  die, 
When  I  think  of  thee,  my  brother  !  thou  flower  of  chivalry! 

r 

"  I  am  lonely — I  am  lonely  !  this  rest  is  even  as  death  ! 
Let  me  hear  again  the  ringing  spears,  and  the  battle-trumpet's  breath; 
Let  me  see  the  nery  chargei  foam,  and  the  royal  banner  wave — 
T$ut  where  art  thou,  mv  brother  ?  where  ? — in  thy  low  and  early  grave ! 

And  louder  swelled  the  songs  of  joy  through  that  victorious  night. 
And  faster  flowed  the  red  wine  forth,  by  the  stars'  and  torches'  light ; 
But  low  and  deep,  amidst  the  mirth,  was  heard  the  conqueror's  moan — 
"  My  brother !  oh,  my  brother  !  best  and  bravest !  thou  art  gone  I  " 


2iS  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  RETURN. 

"HAST  thou  come  with  the  heart  of  thy  childhood  back? 

The  free,  the  pure,  the  kind  ?  " 
So  murmured  the  trees  in  my  homeward  track, 

As  they  played  to  the  mountain-wind. 

"'  Hath  thy  soul  been  true  to  its  early  love  ?  " 

Whispered  my  native  streams: 
'"  Hath  the  spirit  nursed  amidst  hill  and  grove, 
Still  revered  its  first  high  dreams  ?" 

"  Hast  thou  borne  in  thy  bosom  the  holy  prayer 

Of  the  child  in  his  parent-halls  ?  " 
Thus  breathed  a  voice  on  the  thrilling  air 

From  the  old  ancestral  walls. 

"  Hast  thou  kept  thy  faith  with  the  faithful  dead, 

Whose  place  of  rest  is  nigh  ? 
With  the  father's  blessing  o'er  thee  shed, 

With  the  mother's  trusting  eye?" 

Then  my  tears  gushed  forth  in  sudden  rain, 

As  I  answered — "  O,  ye  shades  1 
I  bring  not  my  childhood's  heart  again 

To  the  freedom  of  your  glades. 

"  I  have  turned  from  my  first  pure  love  aside, 

O  bright  and  happy  streams  ! 
Light  after  light,  in  my  soul  have  died 

The  day-spring's  glorious  dreams. 

"  And  the  holy  prayer  from  my  thoughts  hath  passed— 

The  prayer  at  my  mother's  knee ; 
Darkened  and  troubled  I  come  at  last, 

Home  of  my  boyish  glee ! 

"  But  I  bear  from  my  childhood  a  gift  of  tears. 

To  soften  and  atone ; 
And  oh  !  ye  scenes  of  those  blessed'  years, 

They  shall  make  me  again  your  own." 


VS  OF  7 HE  AFFECTIONS. 


219 


THE  VAUDOIS  WIFE.1 

'Clasp me  a  little  longer,  on  the  brink 

Of  fate  !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress  ; 
Ami  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat,   >h!  think — 

And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess — 

That  thpu  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 
And  friend,  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 

Oh  !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs  when  I  am  laid  in  dust  " 

Gertrude  oj  Wyoming. 


THY  voice  is  in  mine  ear,  beloved  1 

Thy  look  is  in  my  heart, 
Thy  bosom  is  my  resting-place, 

And  yet  I  must  depart. 
Earth    on    my    soul   is    strong  —  too 
strong —  • 

Too  precious  is  its  chain, 
All  woven  of  thy  love,  dear  friend, 

Yet  vain,  though  mighty,  vain  ! 

Thou  seest  mine  eye  grow  dim,  beloved ! 

Thou  seest  my  life-blood  flow. 
Bow  to  the  chastener  silently, 

And  calmly  let  me  go ! 
A  little  while  between  our  hearts 

The  shadowy  gulf  must  lie, 
Vet  have  we  for  their  communing 

Still,  still  Eternity ! 

Alas  !  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek, 

My  spirit  they  detain  ; 
I  know  that  from  thine  agony 

Is  wrung  that  burning  rain. 
Best,  kindest,  weep  not :  make  the  pang, 

The  bitter  conflict,  less — 
Oh !  sad  it  is,  and  yet  a  joy, 

To  feel  thy  love's  excess  ! 

But   calm  thee !    Let  the   thought  of 
death 

A  solemn  peace  restore  ! 
The  voice  that  must  be  silent  soon 

Would  speak  to  thee  once  more, 
1'liat  thou  mayst  bear  its  blessing  on 

Through  years  of  after  life — 
A  token  of  consoling  love, 

Even  from  this  hour  of  strife. 


I  bless  thee  for  the  noble  heart, 

The  tender,  and  the  true, 
Where  mine  hath  found  the  happiest 
rest 

That  e'er  fond  woman's  knew  ; 
I  bless  thee,  faithful  friend  and  guide, 

For  my  own,  my  treasured  share. 
In  the  mournful  secrets  of  thy  soul, 

In  thy  sorrow,  in  thy  prayer. 

I  bless  thee  for  kind  looks  and  words 

Showered  on  my  path  like  dew, 
For  all  the  love  in  those  deep  eyes  ! 

A  gladness  ever  new ! 
For  the  voice  which  ne'er  to  mine  re- 
plied 

But  in  kindly  tones  of  cheer ;  • 
For  every  spring  of  happiness 

My  soul  hath  tasted  here  ! 

I  bless  thee  for  the  last  rich  boon 

Won  from  affection  tried, 
The  right  to  gaze  on  death  with  thee. 

To  perish  by  thy  side  I 
And  yet  more  for  the  glorious  hope 

Even  to  these  moments  given — 
Did  not  thy  spirit  ever  lift — 

The  trust  of  mine  to  Heaven  ? 

Now  be  thou  strong  !     Oh,  knew  we  not 

Our  path  must  lead  to  this  1 
A  shadow  and  a  trembling  still 

Were  mingled  with  our  blis>  ! 
We  plighted  our  young  hearts  when 
storms 

Were  dark  upon  the  sky. 
In  full,  deep  knowledge  of  their  task 

To  suffer  and  to  die  ! 


1  The  wife  of  a  Vaudois  leader,  in  one  of  the  attacks  made  on  the  Protestant  hamlets, 
received  a  mortal  wound,  and  died  in  her  husband's  arms,  exhorting  him  to  courage  ana 
mdurance. 


220 


SOAGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Be  strong  I  I  leave  the  living  voice 

Of  this,  my  martyred  blood, 
With   the     thousand    echoes    of    the 
hills, 

With  the  torrent's  foaming  flood  ; 
A  spirit  'midst  the  caves  to  dwell, 

A  token  on  the  air. 
To  rouse  the  valiant  from  repose, 

The  fainting  from  despair. 


Hear  it,  and  bear  thou  on,  my  love  ! 

Ay,  joyously  endure ! 
Our  mountains  must  be  altars  yet, 

Inviolate  and  pure  ;  [still 

There  must  our  God  be  worshipped 

With  the  worship  of  the  free  : 
Farewell ! — there's    but  one    pang    in 
death, 

One  only — leaving  thee  1 


THE  GUERILLA  LEADER'S  VOW. 

"  All  my  pretty  ones  1 
Did  yon  say  all  ? 

*          *  *  * 

Let  us  make  medicine  of  this  great  revenge, 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief !  " 

Macbeth. 


MY  battle-vow ! — no  minster  walls 

Gave  back  the  burning  word, 
Nor  cress  nor  shrine  the  low  deep  tone 

Of  smothered  vengeance  heard : 
But  the  ashes  of  a  ruined  home 

Thrilled,  as  it  sternly  rose, 
With  the  mingling  voice  of  blood  that 
shook 

The  midnight's  dark  repose. 

I  breathed  it  not  o'er  kingly  tombs, 

But  where  my  children  lay. 
And  the  startled  vulture  at  my  step 

Soared  from  their  precious  clay. 
I  stood  amidst  my  dead  alone — 

I  kissed  their  lips — I  poured, 
1 ,1  the  strong  silence  of  that  hour, 

My  spirit  on  my  sword. 

!"ne  roof-tree  fallen,  the  smouldering 

floor, 

The  blackened  threshold-stone, 
'  he  bright  hair  torn,  and  soiled  with 

blood, 

Whose  fountain  was  my  own ; 
These,  and  the  everlasting  hills, 
Bore  witness  that  wild  night ; 
Before  them  rose  the  avenger's  soul, 
In  crushed  affection's  m:"M. 


The  stars,  the  searching  stars  of  heaven 

With  keen  looks  would  upbraid, 
If  from  my  heart  the  fiery  vow, 

Seared  on  it  then,  could  fade. 
They  have   no  cause  ! — Go,   ask  the 
streams 

That  by  my  paths  have  swept, 
The   red  waves  that  unstained   were 
borne — 

How  hath  my  faith  been  kept  ? 

And  other  eyes  are  on  my  soul, 

That  never,  never  close, 
The  sad,  sweet  glances  of  the  lost — 

They  leave  me  no  repose. 
Haunting  my  night-watch  'midst   the 
rocks,,  • 

And  by  the  torrent's  foam, 
Through   the   dark-rolling  mi?ts  they 
shine, 

Full,  full  of  love  and  home  ! 

Alas!  the  mountain  eagle's  heart, 

When  wronged,  may  yet  find  rest ; 
Scorning  the  place  made  desolate, 

He  seeks  another  nest. 
i  But  I — your  soft  looks  wake  the  thirsf 

That  wins  no  quenching  rain  ; 
Ye  drive  me  back,  my  beautiful ! 

To  tlie  stormy  fight  again. 


SONGS  Of  THE  AFFECTIONS.  221 


THEKLA  AT  HER  LOVER'S  GRAVE.1 


"  Thither  where  he  lies  buried ! 
That  single  spot  is  the  whole  world  to  me." 

COLERIDGE'S  IVallenstetH, 

THY  voice  was  in  my  soul  !  it  called  me  on ; 

O  my  lost  friend  1  thy  voice  was  in  my  soul  : 
From  the  cold,  faded  world  whence  thou  art  gone, 

To  hear  no  more  life's  troubled  billows  roll, 
I  come,  I  come  ! 

Now  speak  to  me  again  !  we  loved  so  well — 
We  loved  !  oh  !  still,  I  know  that  still  we  love ! 

I  have  left  all  things  with  thy  dust  to  dwell, 

Through  these  dim  aisles  in  dreams  of  thee  to  rove: 
This  is  my  home  ! 

Speak  to  me  in  the  thrilling  minster's  gloom ! 

Speak  !  thou  hast  died,  and  sent  me  no  farewell  I 
I  will  not  shrink  ;  oh  !  mighty  is  the  tomb, 

But  one  thing  mightier,  which  it  cannot  quell, 
This  woman's  heart ! 

This  lone,  full,  fragile  heart ! — the  strong  alone 
In  love  and  grief — of  both  the  burning  shrine  ! 

Thou,  my  soul's  friend!  with  grief  hast  surely  done, 
But  with  the  love  which  made  thy  spirit  mine, 
Say,  couldst  thou  part? 

I  hear  the  rustling  banners  ;  and  I  hear 

The  wind's  low  singing  through  the  fretted  stone  ; 

I  hear  not  thee  ,  and  yet  I  feel  thee  near — 

What  is  this  bound  that  keeps  thee  from  thine  own  ? 
Breathe  it  away! 

I  wait  thee — I  adjure  thee  !  hast  thou  known 
How  I  have  loved  thee  ?  couldst  thou  dream  it  all  J 

Am  I  not  here,  with  night  and  death  alone, 
And  fearing  not  ?  nnd  hath  my  spirit's  call 
O'er  thine  no  sway  ? 

Thou  canst  not  come  !  or  thus  I  should  not  weep! 

Thy  love  is  deathless — but  no  longer  free!  . 
Soon  would  its  wing  triumphantly  o'ersweep 

The  viewless  barrier,  if  such  power  might  be, 
Soon,  soon,  and  fast ! 


1  See  Wallensitin,  Act  6th. 


222  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

But  I  shall  come  to  thee  I  our  soul's  deep  dreams, 
Our  young  affections,  have  not  gushed  in  vain ; 

Soon  in  one  tide  shall  blend  the  severed  streams, 
The  worn  heart  break  its  bonds — and  death  and  pain 
Be  with  the  past ! 


THE  SISTERS  OF  SCIO 

*  As  are  our  hearts,  our  way  is  one, 
And  cannot  be  divided.     Strong  affection 
Contends  with  all  things  and  o'ercometh  all  things. 
Will  I  not  live  with  thee?  will  I  not  cheer  thee? 
Wouldst  thou  be  lonely  then  ?  wouldst  thou  be  sad  ?** 
JOANNA  BAILUB. 

*  SISTER,  sweet  sister  1  let  me  weep  awhile! 

Bear  with  me — give  the  sudden  passion  way ! 
Thoughts  of  our  own  lost  home,  our  sunny  isle, 

Come,  as  a  wind  that  o'er  a  reed  hath  sway ; 
Till  my  heart  dies  with  yearnings  and  sick  fears ! 
Oh !  could  my  life  melt  from  me  in  these  tears  J 

"  Our  father's  voice,  our  mother's  gentle  eye. 
Our  brother's  bounding  step — where  are  they,  where? 

Desolate,  desolate  our  chambers  lie ! 

How  hast  thou  won  thy  spirit  from  despair  ? 

O'er  mine  swift  shadows,  gusts  of  terror,  sweep  ; — 

I  sink  away — bear  with  me — let  me  weep!" 

"Yes!  weep,  my  sister!  weep,  till  from  thy  heart 
The  weight  flow  forth  in  tears !  yet  sink  thou  not ; 

I  bind  my  sorrow  to  a  lofty  part, 

For  thee,  my  gentle  one !  our  orphan  lot 

To  meet  in  quenchless  trust ;  my  sou!  is  strong — 

Thou,  too,  wilt  rise  in  holy  might  ere  long. 

"  A  breath  of  our  free  heavens  and  noble  sires, 
A  memory  of  our  old  victorious  dead, — 

These  mantle  me  with  power !  and  though  their  fires 
In  a  frail  censer  briefly  may  be  shed, 

Yet  shall  they  light  us  onward,  side  by  side ; 

Have  the  wild  birds,  and  have  not  we,  a  guide  ? 

"  Cheer,  then,  beloved !  on  whose  meek  brow  is  set 
Our  mother's  image — in  whose  voice  a  tone, 

A  faint  sweet  sound  of  hers  is  lingering  yet, 
An  echo  of  our  childhood's  music  gone ; — 

Cheer  thee!  thy  sister's  heart  and  faith  are  high  • 

Our  path  is  one — with  thee  I  live  and  die  I " 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  223 

BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO. 

TTie  celebrated  Spanish  champion,  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  having  made  many  ineffectual  efforts 
to  procure  the  release  of  his  father,  the  Count  Saldana,  who  had  been  imprisoned  by  King 
Alfonso,  of  Asturias,  almost  from  the  time  of  Bernardo's  birth,  at  last  took  up  arms  in 
despair.  The  war  which  he  maintained  proved  so  destructive,  that  the  men  of  the  land  gath- 
ered round  the  King,  and  united  in  demanding  Saldana's  liberty.  Alfonso,  accordingly,  of- 
fered Bernardo  immediate  possession  of  his  father's  person  in  exchange  ior  his  castle  of 
Carpio.  Bernardo,  without  hesitation,  gave  up  his  stronghold,  with  all  his  captives  ;  and 
being  assured  that  his  father  was  then  on  his  way  from  prison,  rode  forth  with  the  King  to 
m?et  him.  And  when  he  saw  his  father  approaching,  he  exclaimed,  says  the  ancient  chron- 
icle, "Oh,  God!  is  the  Count  of  Saldana  indeed  coming?" — "Look  where  he  is,"  replied 
the  cruel  King,  "  and  now  go  and  greet  him  whom  you  have  so  long  desired  to  see."  The 
remainder  of  the  story  will  be  found  related  in  the  ballad.  The  chronicles  and  romances 
leave  us  nearly  in  the  dark  as  to  Bernardo's  history  after  this  event.] 

THE  warrior  bowed  his  crested  head,  and  tamed  his  heart  of  fire, 

And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-imprisoned  sire  ; 

"  I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress  keys,  I  bring  my  captive  train, 

I  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord! — oh,  break  my  father's  chain!  " 

"  "ise,  rise!  even  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ransomed  man  this  day: 
Mount  thy  good  horse,  and  thou  and  I  will  meet  him  on  his  way." 
.Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on  his  steed, 
And  urged,  as  if  with  lance  in  rest,  the  charger's  foamy  speed. 

And  lo!  from  afar,  as  on  they  pressed,  there  came  a  glittering  band, 
With  one  that  midst  them  stately  rode,  as  a  leader  in  the  land ; 
"  Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste  !  for  there,  in  very  truth  is  he, 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearned  so  long  to  see." 

His  dark  eye  flashed,  his  proud  breast  heaved,  his  cheek's  blood  came  and  we  t, 
He  reached  that  gray-haired  chieftain's  side,  and  there,  dismounting,  bent ; 
A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand  he  took, — 
What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery  spirit  shook  ? 

That  hand  was  cold — a  frozen  thing — it  dropped  from  his  like  lead, — 
He  looked  up  to  the  face  above — the  face  was  of  the  dead ! 
A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow — the  brow  was  fixed  and  white — 
He  met  at  last  his  father's  eyes — but  in  them  was  no  sight! 

Up  from  the  ground  he  sprang,  and  gazed,  but  who  could  paint  that  gaze } 
They  hushed  their  very  hearts,  that  saw  its  horror  and  amaze  ; 
They  might  have  chained  him,  as  before  that  stony  form  he  stood, 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and  from  his  lip  the  blood. 

"'  Father  !  "  at  length  he  murmured  low — and  wept  like  childhood  then,— 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of  warlike  men  ! — 
He  thought  on  all  his  glorious  hopes,  and  all  his  young  renown, — 
He  flung  the  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the  dust  sate  down. 

Then  covering  with  his  steel-gloved  hands  his  darklv  mournful  brow, 
*  No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "  to  lift  the  sword  for  now. 


224  SONGS  Of  THE  AFlFECtlOffS. 

My  king  is  false,  my  hope  betrayed,  my  father, — oh !  the  worth, 
The  glory,  and  the  loveliness,  are  passed  away  from  earth  ! 

"  I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my  sire  !  beside  thee  yet, 
I  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's  free  soil  had  met, 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit  then — for  thee  my  fields. were  won,- — 
And  thou  hast  perished  in  thy  chains,  as  though  thou  hadst  no  son  !  " 

Then,  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he  seized  the  monarch's  rei», 
Amidst  the  pale  and  wildered  looks  of  all  the  courtier  train  ; 
And -with  a  fierce,  o'ermastering  grasp,  the  rearing  war-horse  led, 
And  sternly  set  them  face  to  face — the  king  before  the  dead ! 

"Came  I  not  forth,  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's  hand  to  kiss  ? 

Be  still  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king  I  and  tell  me  what  is  this! 

The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought— give  answer,  where  are  they? 

If  thou  wouldst  clear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  life  through  this  cold  clay ! 

"  Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light — be  still !  keep  down  thine  ire, 
Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak — this  earth  is  not  my  sire  ! 
Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  for  whom  my  blood  was  shed, — 
Thou  canst  not  ? — and  a  king  ! — his  dust  be  mountains  on  thy  headl " 

He  loosed  the  steed ;  his  slack  hand  fell — upon  the  silent  face 

tie  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look — then  turned  from  that  sad  place : 

His  hope  was  crushed,  his  after-fate  untold  in  martial  strain, 

His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the  hills  of  Spain. 


THE  TOMB  OF  MADAME  LANGHANS.' 

"  To  a  mysteriously  consorted  pair 
This  place  is  consecrate  ;  to  death  and  life, 
And  to  the  best  affections  that  proceed 
From  this  conjunction." 

WORDSWORTH. 

How  many  hopes  were  borne  upon  thy  bier, 
O  bride  of  stricken  love  !  in  anguish  hither! 
Like  flowers,  the  first  and  fairest  of  the  year, 
Plucked  on  the  bosom  of  the  dead  to  wither; 
Hopes  from  their  source  all  holy,  though  of  earth, 
All  brightly  gathering  round  affection's  hearth. 

Of  mingled  prayer  they  told  :  of  Sabbath  hours; 
Of  morn's  farewell,  and  evening's  blessed  meeting  ; 
Of  childhood's  voice,  amidst  the  household  bowers; 
And  bounding  step,  and  smile  of  joyous  greeting  ; — 

1  At  Hindlebank,  near  Berne,  she  is  represented  as  bursting  from  the  sepulchre,  with  her 
infant  in  her  arms,  at  the  sound  of  the  last  trumpet.  An  inscription  on  the  tomb  conclude 
thus :— "  Here  am  I,  O  God !  with  the  child  whom  thou  hast  given  me-" 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


But  thou,  young  mother  !  to  thy  gentle  heart 
Didst  take  thy  babe,  and  meekly  so  depart. 

How  many  hopes  have  sprung  in  radiance  hence  ! 

Their  trace  yet  lights  the  dust  where  thou  art  sleeping  I 

A  solemn  joy  comes  o'er  me,  and  a  sense 

Of  triumph,  blent  with  nature's  gush  of  weeping, 

As,  kindling  up  the  silent  stone,  I  see 

The  glorious  vision,  caught  by  faith,  of  thee. 

Slumberer!  love  calls  thee,  for  the  night  is  past: 

Put  on  the  immortal  beauty  of  thy  waking! 

Captive  !  and  hear'st  thou  not  the  trumpet's  blast, 

The  long,  victorious  note,  thy  bondage  breaking ! 

Thou  hear'st,  thou  answer's!,  "  God  of  earth  and  heav««! 

Here  am  I,  with  the  child  whom  Thou  hast  given  !  " 


THE  EXILE'S  DIRGE. 

"  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o"  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages, 
Thpu  thy  worldly  task  hast  done. 
Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages." 

Cymbeline. 

'  I  attended  a  funeral  where  there  were  a  number  of  the  German  settlors  present.  After  I  had 
performed  such  service  a»  is  usual  on  similar  occasions,  a  most  venerable-looking  old  man 
came  forward,  and  asked  me  if  I  were  willing  that  they  should  perform  some  of  their  peculiar 
rites.  He  opened  a  very  ancient  version  of  Luther's  Hymns,  and  they  all  began  to  sing,  in 
German,  so  loud  that  the  woods  echoed  the  strain.  There  was  something  affecting  in  the 
singiiii;  of  these  ancient  people,  carrying  one  of  their  brethren  to  his  last  home,  and  using  t!ie 
language  and  rites  which  they  had  brought  with  them  over  the  sea  from 'the  fater/and,  a 
word  which  often  occurred  in  this  hymn.  It  was  a  long,  slow,  and  mournful  air,  which  they 
sung  as  they  bore  the  body  along  :  the  words  '  mein  Gait,'  '  niein  Bruder?  and  '  Vaterland' 
died  awav  in  distant  echoes  amongst  the  woods.  I  shall  long  remember  that  funeral  hymn." 
— FLINT'S  Recollections  of  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi.] 

So  swelled  the  chant ;    and  the  deep 

wind's  moan 
Seemed  through  the  cedars  to  murmur 

— "  Gone !  " 


THERK  went  a  dirge  through  the  forest's 

gloom — 
A.n  exile  was  borne  to  a  lonely  tomb. 

11  Brother !  "  (so  the  chant  was  sung 
In  the-slumberer's  native  tongue), 
*  Friend  and  brother  !«not  for  thee 
Shall  the  sound  of  weeping  be  : 
Long  the  exile's  woe  hath  lain 
Jn  thy  life  a  withering  chain  ; 
Music  from  thine  own  blue  streams, 
Wandered  through  thy  fever-dreams; 
Voices  from  thy  country's  vines 
Met  thee  'midst  the  alien  pines  ; 
And  thy  true  heart  died  away. 
Aivl  thy  spirit  would  not  stay." 


"Brother  !  by  the  rolling  Rhine 
Stands  the  home  that  once  was  thine 
Brother !  now  thy  dwelling  lies 
Where  the  Indian  arrow  flies  ! 
He  that  blessed  thine  infant  head, 
Fills  a  distant  greensward  bed  ; 
She  that  heard  thy  lisping  prayer, 
Slumbers  low  beside  him  there ; 
They  that  earliest  with  thee  played, 
Rest  beneath  their  own  oak  shade, 


226 


SOA'GS  OF  THE  AFPEC1WNS. 


Far,  far  hence  ! — yet  sea  nor  shore 
1  laply,  brother !  part  ye  more  ; 
God  hath  called  thee  to  that  band 
I  i  the  immortal  Fatherland  ! " 

"The  Fatherland!''1—  with  that  sweet 

word 
\  burst  of  tears  'midst  the  strain  was 

heard. 

'  Brother  !  were  we  there  with  thee, 
Rich  would  many  a  meeting  be  ! 
Many  a  broken  garland  bound, 
Many  a  mourned  and  lost  one  found ! 


But  our  task  is  still  to  bear, 
Still  to  breathe  in  changeful  air 
Loved  and  bright  things  to  resign, 
As  even  now  this  dust  of  thine ; 
Yet  to  hope  ! — to  hope  in  heaven, 
Though  flowers  fall,  and  ties  be  riven— 
Yet  to  pray !  and  wait  the  hand 
Beckoning  to  the  Fatherland  !  " 

And  the  requiem  died  in  the  forest's 

gloom ; 
They  had   reached  the  exile's   lonely 

tomb. 


THE  DREAMING  CHILD. 

"  Alas  !  what  kind  of  grief  should  thy  years  know? 
Thy  brow  and  cheek  are  smooth  as  waters  be 
When  no  breath  troubles  them." 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLHTCHI 

AND  is  there  sadness  in  thy  dreams,  my  boy  ? 
What  should  the  cloud  be  made  of  ? — blessed  child  ! 
Thy  spirit,  borne  upon  a  breeze  of  joy, 
All  day  hath  ranged  through  sunshine,  clear,  yet  mild. 

And  now  thou  tremblest ! — wherefore  ? — in  thy  soul 
There  lies  no  past,  no  future.     Thou  hast  heard 
No  sound  of  presage  from  the  distance  roll, 
Thy  heart  bears  traces  of  no  arrowy  word. 

From  thee  no  love  hath  gone  ;  thy  mind's  young  eye 
Hath  looked  not  into  death's,  and  thence  become 
A  questioner  of  mute  eternity, 
A  weary  searcher  for  a  viewless  home  : 

Nor  hath  thy  sense  been  quickened  unto  pain, 
By  feverish  watching  for  some  step  beloved ; 
Free  are  thy  thoughts,  an  ever-changeful  train, 
Glancing  like  dew-drops,  and  as  lightly  moved. 

Yet  now,  on  billows  of  strange  passion  tossed, 
How  art  thou  wildered  in  the  cave  of  sleep  ! 
My  gentle  child  !  'midst  what  dim  phantoms  lost, 
Thus  in  mysterious  anguish  dost  thou  weep  ? 

Awake  \  they  sadden  me — those  early  tears, 
First  gushings  of  the  strong  dark  river's  flow, 
That  must  o'ersweep  thy  soul  with  coming  years, 
The  unfathomable  flood  of  human  woe  ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


227 


Awful  to  watch,  even  rolling  through  a  dream, 
Forcing  wild  spray-drops  but  from  childhood's  eyes 
Wake,  wake !  as  yet  tky  life's  transparent  stream 
Should  wear  the  tinge  of  none  but  summer  skies. 

Come  from  the  shadow  of  those  realms  unknown, 
Where  now  thy  thoughts  dismayed  and  darkling  rove 
Come  to  the  kindly  region  all  thine  own, 
The  home,  still  bright  for  thee  with  guardian  love. 

Happy,  fair  child  !  that  yet  a  mother's  voice 
Can  win  thec  back  from  visionary  strife ! 
Oh,  shall  my  soul,  thus  wakened  to  rejoice, 
Start  from  the  dream-like  wilderness  of  life  ? 


THE  CHARMED  PICTURE. 


1  Oh  !  that  those  lips  had  language !   Life  hath  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  1  saw  thee  last." 

COWPBR. 


THINE  eyes  are  charmed — thine  earn- 
est eyes — 

Thou  image  of  the  dead ! 
A  spell  within  their  sweetness  lies, 

A  virtue  thence  is  shed. 

Oft  in  their  meek  blue  light  enshrined 

A  blessing  seems  to  be, 
And    sometimes    there    my   wayward 
mind 

A  still  reproach  can  see  : 

And  sometimes  pity,  soft  and  deep, 
And  quivering  through  a  tear  ; 

Even  as  if  love  in  heaven  could  weep, 
For  grief  left  drooping  here. 

And  oh,  my  spirit  needs  that  balm  ! 

Needs  it  'midst  fitful  mirth  ! 
And  in  the  night-hour's  haunted  calm, 

And  by  the  lonely  hearth. 

Look  on  me  thus,  when  hollow  praise 

Math  made  the  weary  pine 
For  one  true  tone  of  other  days, 

One  glance  of  love  like  thine ! 


Look  on  me  thtis,  when  sudden  glee 
.Bears  my  quick  heart  along, 

On  wings  that  struggle  to  be  free, 
As  bursts  of  skylark  song. 

In  vain,  in  vain  I — too  soon  are  felt 
The  wounds  they  cannot  flee ; 

Better  in  childlike  tears  to  melt, 
Pouring  my  soul  0*1  thee  ! 

Sweet  face,  that  .  o'er    my  childhood 
shone, 

Whence  is  thy  power  of  change, 
Thus  ever  shadowing  back  my  own, 

The  rapid  and  the  strange  ? 

Whence    are    they    charmed  —  those 
earnest  eyes  ? 

I  know  the  mystery  well ! 
In  mine  own  trembling  bosom  lies 

The  spirit  of  the  spell ! 

Of    Memory,    Conscience,    Love,   'tia 
born — 

Oh  I  change  no  longer,  thoti  ! 
Forever  be  the  blessing  worn 

On  thy  pure  thoughtful  brow ! 


SOA'GS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


PARTING   WORDS. 

"  One  struggle  more  and  I  am  free." 

BYRON. 

LEAVE  me,  oh  !  leave  me  ! — unto  all  below 
Thy  presence  binds 'me  with  too  deep  a  spell ; 
Thou  makest  those  mortal  regions,  whence  I  go, 
Too  mighty  in  their  loveliness— farewell, 

That  I  may  part  in  peace  ! 

Leave  me  ! — thy  footstep,  with  its  lightest  sound, 
The  very  shadow  of  thy  waving  hair, 
Wakes  in  my  soul  a  feeling  too  profound, 
Too  strong  for  aught  that  loves  and  dies,  to  bear — 
Oh !  bid  the  conflict  cease  ! 

I  hear  thy  whisper — and  the  warm  tears  gush 
Into  mine  eyes,  the  quick  pulse  thrills  my  heart; 
Thou  biddest  the  peace,  the  reverential  hush, 
The  still  submission,  from  my  thoughts  depart; 
Dear  one !  this  must  not  be 

The  past  looks  on  me  from  thy  mournful  eye, 
The  beauty  of  our  free  and  vernal  days, 
Our  communings  with  sea,  and  hill,  and  sky — 
Oh !  take  that  bright  world  from  my  spirit's  gaze. 
Thou  art  all  earth  to  me  I 

Shut  out  the  sunshine  from  my  dying  room, 
The  jasmine's  breath,  the  murmur  of  the  bee ; 
Let  not  the  joy  of  bird-notes  pierce  the  gloom  ! 
They  speak  of  love;  of  summer,  and  of  thee, 

Too  much — and  death  is  here ! 

Doth  our  own  spring  make  happy  music  now, 
From  the  old  beech-roots  flashing  into  day  ? 
Are  the  pure  lilies  imaged  in  its  flow  ? 
Alas  !  vain  thoughts !  that  fondly  thus  can  stray 
From  the  dread  hour  so  near  ! 

If  I  could  but  draw  courage  from  the  light 
Of  thy  clear  eye,  that  ever  shone  to  bless ! — 
Not  now  !  'twill  not  be  now! — my  aching  sight 
Drinks  from  that  fount  a  flood  of  tenderness, 
Bearing  all  strength  away  1 

Leave  me  ! — thou  comest  between  my  heart  and  Heaven : 
I  would  be  still,  in  voiceless  prayer  to  die ! 
Why  must  our  souls  thus  love,  and  then  be  riven  ! 
Return  !  thy  parting  wakes  mine  agony ! 
Oh,  yet  awhile  delay  I 


SO^VGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  MESSAGE  TO  THE  DEAD-' 


THOU'RT  passing  hence,  my  brother! 

Oh  !  my  earliest  friend,  farewell ! 
Tiiou'rt  leaving  me,-without  thy  voice, 

In  a  lonely  home  to  dwell  ; 
And    from    the    hills,   and    from    the 
hearth, 

And  from  the  household  tree, 
With  thee  departs  the  lingering  mirth, 

The  brightness  goes  with  thee. 

But  thou,  my  friend,  my  brother  1 

Thou'rt  speeding  to  the  shore 
Where  the  dirge-like  tone  of  parting 
words 

Shall  smite  the  soul  no  more  ! 
And  thou  wilt  see  our  holy  dead, 

The  lost  on  earth  and  main : 
Into  the  sheaf  of  kindred  hearts 

Thou  wilt  be  bound  again  ! 

Tell,  then,  our  friend  of  boyhood, 

That  yet  his  name  is  heard 
On   the   blue   mountains,   whence    his 
youth 

Passed  like  a  swift  bright  bird. 
The  light  of  his  exulting  brow, 

The  vision  of  his  glee, 
Are  on  me  still — Oh  !  still  I  trust 

That  smile  again  to  see. 


And  tell  our  fair  young  sister, 

The  rose  cut  down  in  spring, 
That  yet  my  gushing  soul  is  filled 

With  lays  she  loved  to  sing. 
Her  soft  deep  eyes  look  through  my 
dreams, 

Tender  and  sadly  sweet  ;— 
Tell  her  my  heart  within  me  burns 

Once  more  that  gaze  to  meet. 

And  tell  our  white-haired  father. 

That  in  the  paths  he  trode, 
The  child  he  loved,  the  last  on  earth, 

Yet  walks  and  worships  God 
Say,  that  his  last  fond  blessing  yet 

Rests  on  my  soul  like  dew, 
And  by  its  hallowing  might  I  trust 

Once  more  his  face  to  view. 

And  tell  our  gentle  mother, 

That  on  her  grave  I  pour 
The  sorrows  of  my  spirit  forth, 

As  on  her  breast  of  yore 
Happy  thou  art  that  soon,  how  soon, 

Our  good  and  bright  will  see! — 
Oh !  brother,  brother  '  may  I  dwell, 

Ere  long,  with  them  and  thee  I 


THE  TWO  HOMES. 

x  •'  Oh  !  if  the  soul  immortal  be, 

Is  not  its  love  immortal  too?" 

SEE'ST  thou  my  home  ? — 'tis  where  yon  woods  are  waving, 
In  their  dark  richness,  to  the  summer  air, 
Where  yon  blue  stream,  a  thousand  flower-banks  laving, 
Leads  down  the  hill  a  vein  o'f  light, — 'tis  there  ! 

'Midst  those  green  wilds  how  many  a  fount  lies  gleaming, 
Fringed  with  the  violet,  colored  with  the  skies ! 
My  boyhood's  haunt,  through  days  of  summer  dreaming, 
Under  young  leaves  that  shook  with  melodies. 


1  "  Messages  from  the  living  to  the  dead  are  not  uncommon  in  the  Highlands.  The 
Gaels  have  such  a  ceaseless  consciousness  of  immortality,  that  their  departed  frenids  are 
considered  as  merely  absent  for  a  time,  aad  permitted  to  relieve  the  hours  of  separation  by 
occasional  lutercourse  with  the  objects  of  tluir  earliest  affections."— See  the  notes  to  M-»- 
Brunton's  Works. 


SOtfGS  OF  TffE  AFFECTIONS. 


My  home  1  the  spirit  of  its  love  is  breathing 
In  every  wind  that  plays  across  my  track ; 
From  its  white  walls  the  ve/y  tendrils  wreathing, 
Seem  with  soft  links  to  draw  the  wanderer  back. 

There  am  I  loved — there  prayed  for — there  my  mother 
Sits  by  the  hearth  withVneekty  thoughtful  eye ; 
There  my  young  sisters  watch  to  greet  their  brother ; 
Soon  their  glad  footsteps  down  the  path  will  fly. 

There,  in  sweet  strains  of  kindred  music  blejuJing, 
All  the  home-voices  meet  at  day's  decline  ; 
One  are  those  tones,  as  from  one  heart  ascending, — 
There  laughs  my  home — sad  stranger  !  where  is  thine  ? 

Askest  thou  of  mine  ? — In  solemn  peace  'tis  lying, 
Far  o'er  the  deserts  and  the  tombs  away ; 
'Tis  where  /,  too,  am  loved  with  love  undying, 
And  fond  hearts  wait  my  step — But  where  are  they  ? 

Ask  where  the  earth's  departed  have  their  dwelling, 
Ask  of  the" clouds,  the  stars,  the  trackless  air  1 
I  know  it  not,  yet  trust  the  whisper,  telling 
My  lonely  heart  that  love  unchanged  is  there. 

And  what  is  home,  and  where,  but  with  the  loving? 

Happy  thou  art  that  so  canst  gaze  on  thine  ! 

My  spirit  feels  but,  in  its  weary  roving, 

That  with  the  dead,  where'er  they  be,  is  mine. 

Go  to  thy  home,  rejoicing  son  and  brother  ! 
Bear  in  fresh  gladness  to  the  household  scene ! 
For  me,  too,  watch  the  sister  and  the  mother, 
I  well  believe — but  dark  seas  roll  between. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DEATH-BED. 

*  Wie  herrlich  die  Sonne  dort  untergeht  \  da  ich  noch  ein  Bube  war — war's  mein  Lieblings 
;edaake,  wie  sie  zu  leben,  wie  sie  zu  sterben !  " 

DIB  KAUBER. 

Like  thee  to  die,  thou  sun  ! — My  boyhood's  dream 
Was  this;  and  now  my  spirit,  with  thy  beam, 
Ebbs  from  a  field  of  victory ! — yet  the  hour 
Bears  back  upon  me,  with  a  torrent's  power, 
Nature's  deep  longings  : — Oh  !  for  some  kind  eye, 
Wherein  to  meet  love's  fervent  farewell  gaze  ; 
Some  breast  to  pillow  life's  last  agony, 
Some  voice,  to  speak  of  hope  and  brighter  days, 


SOA'GS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS  231 

Beyond  the  pass  of  shadows !     But  I  go, 

I  that  have  been  so  loved,  go  hence  alone ; 

And  ye,  now  gathering  round  my  own  hearth's  glow, 

Sweet  friends  !  it  may  be  that  a  softer  tone, 

Even  in  this  moment,  with  your  laughing  glee, 

Mingles  its  cadence  while  you  speak  of  me  : 

Of  me,  your  soldier,  "midst  the  mountains  lying, 

On  the  red  banner  of  his  battles  dying, 

Far,  far  away  ! — and  oh  !  your  parting  prayer — 

Will  not  his  name  be  fondly  murmured  there  ? 

It  will !     A  blessing  on  that  holy  hearth ! 

Though  clouds  are  darkening  to  o'ercast  its  mirth. 

Mother  !  1  may  not  hear  thy  voice  again ; 

Sisters  !  ye  watch  to  greet  my  step  in  vain.; 

Young  brother,  fare  thee  well ! — on  each  dear  head 

Blessing  and  love  a  thousandfold  be  shed, 

My  soul's  last  earthly  breathings !     May  your  home 

Smile  for  you  ever !     May  no  winter  come, 

No  world,  between  your  hearts  !     May  even  your  tears, 

For  my  sake,  full  of  long-remembered  years, 

Quicken  the  true  affections  that  entwine    • 

Your  lives  in  one  bright  bond  !     I  may  not  sleep 

Amidst  our  fathers,  where  those  tears 'might  shine 

Over  my  slumbers  ;  yet  your  love  will  keep 

My  memory  living  in  the  ancestral  halls, 

Where  shame  hath  never  trod  : — the  dark  night  falls, 

And  I  depart     The  brave  are  gone  to  rest, 

The  brothers  of  my  combats,  on  the  breast 

Of  the  red  field  they  reaped  : — their  work  is  done — • 

Thou,  too,  art  set ! — farewell,  farewell,  thou  sun  I 

The  last  lone  watcher  of  the  bloody  sod, 

Offers  a  trusting  spirit  up  to  God 


THE  IMAGE  IN  THE  HEART. 

TO . 

"  True,  indeed,  it  is, 

That  they  whom  death  has  hidden  from  our  sight, 
Are  worthiest  of  the  mind's  regard  ;  with  them 
The  future  cannot  contradict  the  past — 
Mortality's  last  exercise  and  proof 
Is  undergone." 

WORDSWORTH. 

41  The  love  where  death  has  set  his  seal. 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow." 
BYRON. 

I  CALL  thee  blessed  ! — though  now  the  voice  be  fled 
Which  to  thy  soul  brought  dayspring  with  its  tone, 


23  :  SOATGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

And  o'er  the  gentle  eyes  though  dust  be  spread, 
Eyes  that  ne'er  looked  on  thine  but  light  was  thrown 
Far  through  thy  breast: 

And  though  the  music  of  thy  life  be  broken, 
Or  changed  in  every  chord,  since  he  is  gone, 
Feeling  all  this,  even  yet,  by  many  a  token, 
O  thou,  the  deeply,  but  the  brightly  lone ! 
I  call  thee  blessed ! 

For  in  thy  heart  there  is  a  holy  spot, 
As  'mid  the  waste  an  Isle  of  fount  and  palm, 
Forever  green  ! — the  world's  breath  enters  not, 
The  passion-tempests  may  not  break  its  calm  ; 
Tis  thine,  all  thine  ! 

Thither,  in  trust  unbaffled,  mavest  thou  turn 
From  bitter  words,  cold  greetings,  heartless  eyes, 
Quenching  thy  soul's  thirst  at  the  hidden  urn 
That,  filled  with  waters  of  sweet  memory,  lies 
In  its  own  shrine. 

Thou  hast  thy  home  ! — there  is  no  power  in  chang» 
To  reach  that  temple  of  the  past ;  no  sway, 
In  all  time  brings  of  sudden,  dark,  or  strange. 
To  sweep  the  still  transparent  peace  away 
From  its  hushed  air  ! 

And  oh  !  that  glorious  image  of  the  dead ! 
Sole  thing  whereon  a  deathless  love  may  rest, 
And  in  deep  faith  and  dreamy  worship  shed 
Its  high  gifts  fearlessly ! — I  call  thee  blessed, 
If  only  there. 

Bksstd  for  the  beautiful  within  thee  dwelling 
-  Never  to  fade  ! — a  refuge  from  distrust, 
A  spring  of  purer  life,  still  freshly  welling, 
To  clothe  the  barrenness  of  earthly  dust 
With  flowers  divine. 

And  thou  hast  been  beloved  ! — it  is  no  dream, 
No  false  mirage  for  thee,  the  fervent  love. 
The  rainbow  still  unreached,  the  ideal  gleam, 
That  ever  seems  before,  beyond,  above, 
Far  off  to  shine. 

But  thou,  from  all  the  daughters  of  the  earth 
Singled  and  marked,  hast  known  its  home  and  place; 
And  the  high  memory  of  its  holy  worth, 
To  this  our  life  a  glory  and  a  grace 

For  thee  hath  given. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  233 

And  art  thou  not  still  fondly,  truly  loved  ? 
Thou  art ! — the  love  his  spirit  bore  away 
Was  not  for  death  !— a  treasure  but  removed, 
A  bright  bird  parted  for  a  clearer  day, — 

Thine  still  in  heaven  1 


THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS. 

**  And  dreams,  in  their  development,  have  breath, 
And  tears  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy  ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will,     . 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's  gone  by." 

BYRON. 

O  SPIRIT-LAND  !  thou  land  of  dreams  ! 
A  world  thou  art  of  mysterious  gleams, 
Of  startling  voices,  and  sounds  at  strife, 
A  world  of  the  dead  in  the  hues  of  life. 

Like  a  wizard's  magic  glass  thou  art, 
When  the  wavy  shadows  float  by,  and  part : 
Visions  of  aspects,  now  loved,  now  strange, 
Glimmering  and  mingling  in  ceaseless  change. 

Thou  art  like  a  city  of  the  past, 
With  its  gorgeous  halls  into  fragments  cast, 
Amidst  whose  ruins  there  glide  and  play 
Familiar  forms  of  the  world  s  to-day. 

Thou  art  like  the  depths  where  the  seas  have  birth, 
Rich  with  the  wealth  that  is  lost  from  earth, — 
All  the  sere  flowers  of  our  days  gone  by, 
And  the  buried  gems  in  thy  bosom  lie. 

Yes !  thou  art  like  those  dim  sea-caves, 

A  realm  of  treasures,  a  realm  of  graves  ! 

And  the  shapes  through  thy  mysteries  that  come  and  gff 

Are  of  beauty  and  terror  of  power  and  woe. 

But  for  me,  O  thou  picture-land  of  sleep  ! 
Thou  art  all  one  world  of  affections  deep, — 
And  wrung  from  my  heart  is  each  flushing  dye, 
That  sweeps  o'er  thy  chambers  of  imagery. 

And  thy  bowers  are  fair — even  as  Eden  fair : 
All  the  beloved  of  my  soul  are  there  ! 
The  forms  my  spirit  most  pines  to  see, 
The  eyes  whose  love  hath  been  life  to  me— 


234  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


They  are  there ;  and  each  blessed  voice  I  hear, 
Kindly,  anc  joyous,  and  silvery  clear  ; 
But  under-tones  are  in  each,  that  say — 
"  It  is  but  a  dream  ;  it  will  melt  away  !  " 

I  walk  with  sweet  friends  in  the  sunset's  glow ; 

I  listen  to  music  of  long  ago  ; 

But  one  thought,  like  an  omen,  breathes  faint  through  the  lay,- 

"  It  is  but  a  dream  :  it  will  melt  away !  " 

I  sit  by  the  hearth  of  my  early  days; 
All  the  home-faces  are  met  by  the  blaze, — 
And  the  eyes  of  the  mother  shine  soft,  yet  say, 
"  It  is  but  a  dream  j  it  will  melt  away  !  " 

And  away,  like  a  flower's  passing  breath,  'tis  gone, 
And  I  wake  more  sadly,  more  deeply  lone  ! 
Oh  !  a  haunted  heart  is  a  weight  to  bear, — 
Bright  faces,  kind  voices  1  where  are  ye,  where  ? 

Shadow  not  forth,  O  thou  land  of  dreams, 

The  past,  as  it  fled  by  my  own  blue  streams ! 

Make  not  my  spirit  within  me  burn 

For  the  scenes  and  the  hours  that  may  ne'er  return  I 

Call  out  from  the  future  my  visions  bright, 
From  the  world  o'er  the  grave  take  thy  solemn  light, 
And  oh !  with  the  loved,  whom  no  more  I  see, 
Show  me  my  home,  as  it  yet  may  be  ! 

As  it  yet  may  be  in  some  purer  sphere, 

No  cloud,  no  parting,  no  sleepless  fear ; 

So  my  soul  may  bear  on  through  the  long,  long  day, 

Till  I  go  where  the  beautiful  melts  not  away  I 


WOMAN  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE. 

"  Where  hath  not  woman  stood, 
Strong  in  affection's  might  ?  a  reed,  upborne 
By  an  o'ermastering  current  I  " 


«JENTLE  and  lovely  form, 
What  didst  thou  here, 

When  the  fierce  battle-storm 
Bore  down  the  spear  ? 

Banner  and  shivered  crest 
Beside  thee  strown, 

Tell,  that  amidst  the  best. 
Thy  work  was  done  I 


Yet  strangely,  sadly  fair, 

O'er  the  wild  scene, 
Gleams,  through  its  golden  hair, 

That  brow  serene. 

Low  lies  the  stately  head — 

Earth-bound  the  free 
How  gave  those  haughty  dead 

A  place  to  thee  ? 


SOtfGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


235 


Slumberer  !  thine  early  bier 
Friends  should  have  crowned, 

Many  a  flower  and  tear 
Shedding  around. 

Soft  voices,  clear  and  young, 

Mingling  their  swell, 
Should  o'er  thy  dust  have  sung 

Earth's  last  farewell. 

Sisters,  above  the  grave 

Of  thy  repose, 
Should  have  bid  violets  wave 

With  the  white  rose. 

Now  must  the  trumpet's  note, 

Savage  and  shrill, 
For  requiem  o'er  thee  float, 

Thou  fair  and  still  t 

And  the  swift  charger  sweep 

In  full  career. 
Trampling  thy  place  of  sleep,— 

Why  earnest  thou  here  ? 

Why  ? — ask  the  true  heart  why 

Woman  hath  been 
Ever,  where  brave  men  die, 

Unshrinking  seen  ? 

Unto  this  harvest  ground 
Proud  reapers  came, — 

Some,  for  that  stirring  sound, 
A  warrior's  name ; 

Some  for  the  stormy  play 

And  joy  of  strife  ; 
And  some,  to  fling  away 

A  weary  life  ; — 

But  thou,  pale  sleeper,  thou, 
With  the  slight  frame, 

And  the  rich  locks,  whose  glow 
Death  cannot  tame ; 

Only  one  thought,  one  power, 

Thee  could  have  led, 
So,  through  the  tempest's  hour, 

To  lift  thy  head  ! 

Only  the  true,  the  strong, 
The  love,  whose  trust 

Woman's  deep  soul  too  long 
Pours  on  the  dust ! 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 

GLOOM  is  upon  thy  lonely  hearth, 
Oh,   silent   house !     once    filled  with 

mirth ; 

Sorrow  is  in  the  breezy  sound 
Of  thy  tall  poplars  whispering  round. 

The  shadow  of  departed  hours 
Hangs  dim  upon  thine  early  flowers  ; 
Even  in  thy  sunshine  seems  to  brood 
Something  more  deep  than  solitude. 

Fair  art  thou,  fair  to  a  stranger's  gaze, 
Mine  own  sweet  home  of  other  days  J 
My  children's  birthplace !  yet  for  me 
It  is  too  much  to  look  on  thee. 

Too  much  !  for  all  about  thee  spread 
I  feel  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
And  almost  linger  for  the  feet 
That  never  more  my  step  shall  meet. 

The   looks,   the   smiles,    all  vanished 

now, 

Follow  me  where  thy  roses  blow, 
The  echoes  of  kind  household  words 
Are  with  me  'midst  thy  singing-birds. 

Till  my  heart  dies,  it  dies  away 

In  yearnings  for  what  might  not  stay ; 

For  love    which   ne'er    deceived  my 

trust, 
For  all   which   went  with    "dust   to 

dust  I " 

What  now  is  left  me  but  to  raise 
From    thee,   lorn    spot !    my    spirit's 

gaze — 

To  lift,  through  tears, my  strainina  eye 
Up  to  my  Father's  house  on  high  f 

Oh  !  many  are  the  mansions  there,  * 
But  not  in  one  hath  grief  a  share  1 
No  haunting  shade  from  things  gone  b\ 
May  there  o'ersweep   the  unchanging 

sky. 
And  they  are  there,  whose  long-loved 

mien 

In  earthly  home  no  more  is  seen  ; 
Whose  places,  where  they  smiling  sate, 
Are  left  unto  us  desolate. 


V"In  my  Father's  house  there  are  many 
mansions."— John  xiv. 


236 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


We  miss  them    when    the    board    is 

spread  ; 

We  miss  them  when  the  prayer  is  said  ; 
Upon  our  dreams  their  dying  eyes 
In  still  and  mournful  fondness  rise. 

But  they  are  where  these  longings  vain 
Trouble  no  more  the  heart  and  brain  ; 
The  sadness  of  this  aching  love 
Dims  not  our  Father's  house  above. 

Ye  are  at  rest,  and  I  in  tears,1 
Ye  dwellers  of  immortal  spheres  ! 
Under  the  poplar  boughs  I  stand, 
And    mourn    the    broken    household 
band. 

But,  by  your  life  of  lowly  faith, 
And  by  your  joyful  hope  in  death, 
Guide  me,  till  on  some  brighter  shore 
The    severed    wreath  is    bound  once 
more! 

Holy  ye  were,  and  good,  and  true  I 
No  change  can  cloud  my  thoughts  of 

you ; 

Guide  me,  like  you  to  live  and  die, 
And  reach  my  Father's  house  on  high  ! 


THE  STRANGER'S    HEART. 

THE  stranger's   heart!    oh,   wound  i 

not! 

A  yearning  anguish  is  its  lot  ; 
In  the  green  shadow  of  thy  tree 
The  stranger  finds  no  rest  with  thee. 

Thou  think'st  the  vine's  low   rustling 

leaves 

Glad  music  round  thy  household  eaves 
To  him  that  sound  hath  sorrow's  tone— 
The  stranger's  heart  is  with  his  own. 

Thou  think'st  thy  children's  laughing 
play 

A  lovely  sight  at  fall  of  day  ; — 

Then  are  the  stranger's  thoughts  op- 
pressed—  [breast. 

His   mother's    voice   comes     o'er   his 

Thou  think'st  it  sweet  w'.cn  friend  witli 

friend 

Beneath  one  roof  in  prayer  may  blend 
Then  doth  the  stranger's  eye  grow 

dim —  [him 

Far,  far  are   those   who   prayed   with 

Thy  hearth,  thy  home,  thy  vintage- 
land — 

The  voices  of  thy  kindred  band— 

Oh !  'midst  them  all  when  blest  then 
art, 

Deal  gently  with  the  stranger's  heart  I 


TO  'A  REMEMBERED  PICTURE.2 

THEY  haunt  me  still — those  calm,  pure,  holy  eyes  ! 

Their  piercing  sweetness  wanders  through  my  dreams 
The  soul  of  music  that  within  them  lies, 

Comes  o'er  my  soul  in  soft  and  sudden  gleams : 
Life — spirit  life,  immortal  and  divine, 
Is  there— and  yet  how  dark  a  death  was  thine ! 

Could  it — oh  !  could  it  be — meek  child  of  song? 

The  might  of  gentleness  on  that  fair  brow — 
Was  the  celestial  gift  no  shield  from  wrong  ? 

Bore  it  no  talisman  to  ward  the  blow  ? 


1  From  an  ancient  Hebrew  dirge  : — 
"Mourn  for  the  mourner,  and  not  for  the  dead, 
For  he  is  at  rest,  and  we  in  tears !  " 
*  That  of  Rizzio,  at  Ho'yrood  House. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTION'S. 


237 


Ask  if  a  flower,  upon  the  billows  cast, 

Might  brave  their  strife — a  flute-note  hush  the  blast? 

Are  there  not  deep  sad  oracles  to  read 
In  the  clear  stillness  of  that  radiant  face? 

Yes,  even  like  thee  must  gifted  spirits  bleed. 
Thrown  on  a  world,  for  heavenly  things  no  place  I 

Bright  exiled  birds  that  visit  alien  skies, 

Pouring  on  storms  their  suppliant  melodies. 

And  seeking  ever  some  true,  gentle  breast, 

Whereon  their  trembling  plumage  might  repose, 

And  their  free  song  notes,  from  that  happy  nest, 
Gush  as  a  fount  that  forth  from  sunlight  flows ; 

Vain  dream !  the  love  whose  precious  balms  might  save, 

Still,  still  denied— they  struggle  to  the  grave. 

Yet  my  heart  shall  not  sink  ! — another  doom, 
Victim !  hath  set  its  promise  in  thine  eye  ; 

A  light  is  there,  too  quenchless  for  the  tomb, 
Bright  earnest  of  a  nobler  destiny ; 

Telling  of  answers,  in  some  far-off  sphere, 

To  the  deep  souls  that  find  no  echo  here. 


COME  HOME! 


COME    home !    there   is   a   sorrowing 
breath 

In  music  since  ye  went, 
And  the  early  flower-scents  wander  by, 

With  mournful  memories  blent. 
The  tones  in  every  household  voice 

Are  grown  more  sad  and  deep, 
\nd  the  sweet  word — brother — wakes 
a  wish 

To  turn  aside  and  weep. 

D     ye     beloved !    come     home ! — the 
hour 

Of  many  a  greeting  tone, 
The  time  of  hearth-light  and  of  song 

Returns — and  ye  are  gone  ! 
And  darkly,  heavily  it  falls 

On  the  forsaken  room. 
Burdening  the  heart  with  tenderness, 

That  deepens  'midst  the  gloom. 


Where  finds  it  von,  ye  wandering  ones  ? 

With  all  your  boyhood's  glee 
Untamed,  beneath  the  desert's  palm. 

Or  on  the  lone  mid-sea  ? 
By  stormy  hills  of  batles  old  ? 

Or  where  dark  rivers  foam  ? — 
Oh  !  life  is  dim  where  ye  are  not — 

Back,  ye  beloved,  come  home ! 

Come  with  the  leaves  and  winds  of 
spring, 

And  swift  birds,  o'er  the  main  ! 
Our  love  is  grown  too  sorrowful — 

Bring  us  its  youth  again  ! 
Bring  the  glad  tones  to  music  back ! 

Still,  still  your  home  is  fair, 
The  spirit  of  your  sunny  life 

Alone  is  wanting  there  ! 


238  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  OBLIVION. 
"  Imploraface!"1 

ONE  draught,  kind  fairy!  from  that  fountain  deep, 
To  lay  the  phantoms  of  a  haunted  breast, 
And  lone  affections,  which  are  grief,  to  steep 
In  the  cool  honey-dews  of  dreamless  rest; 
And  from  the  soul  the  lightning-marks,  to  lave — 
One  draught  of  that  sweet  wave  ! 

Yet,  mortal,  pause ! — within  thy  mind  is  laid 
Wealth,  gathered  long  and  slowly  ;  thoughts  divine 
Heap  that  full  treasure-house  ;  and  thou  hast  made 
The  gems  of  many  a  spirit's  ocean  thine ; 
Shall  the  dark  waters  of  oblivion  bear 
A  pyramid  so  fair  ? 

Pour  from  the  fount !  and  let  the  draught  efface 
AH  the  vain  lore  by  memory's  pride  amassed, 
So  it  but  swept  along  the  torrent's  trace, 
And  fill  the  hollow  channels  of  the  past ; 
And  from  the  bosom's  inmost  folded  leaf 
Raise  the  one  master-grief ! 

Yet  pause  once  more  !     All,  all  thy  soul  hath  known, 
Loved,  felt,  rejoiced  in,  from  its  grasp  must  fade  ! 
Is  there  no  voice  whose  kind  awakening  tone 
A  sense  of  spring-time  in  thy  heart  hath  made  ? 
No  eye  whose  glance  thy  day-dreams  would  recall  ? 
Think — wouldst  thou  part  with  all? 

Fill  with  forgetfulness  ! — there  are,  there  are 
Voices  whose  music  I  have  loved  too  well ; 
Eyes  of  deep  gentleness — but  they  are  far — 
Never !  oh  never,  in  my  home  to  dwell ! 
Take  their  soft  looks  from  off  my  yearning  soul — 
Fill  high  the  oblivious  bowl ! 

Yet  pause  again  !     With  memory  wilt  thou  cast 
The  undying  hope  away,  of  memory  born  ? 
Hope  of  reunion,  heart  to  heart  at  last, 
No  restless  doubt  between,  no  rankling  thorn  ? 
Wouldst  thou  erase  all  records  of  delight 

That  make  such  visions  bright  ? 

Fill  with  forgetfulness,  fill  high ! Yet  stay — 

'Tis  from  the  past  we  shadow  forth  the  land 
Where  smiles,  long  lost,  again  shall  light  our  way, 
And  the  soul's:  friends  be  wreathed  in  one  bright  band. 
Pour  the  sweet  waters  back  on  their  own  rill — 
I  must  remember  still. 

^Quoted  from  a  letter  of  Lord  Byron's.  He  describes  the  impression  produced  upon  hirn 
by  some  tombs  at  Bologna,  bearing  this  simple  inscription,  and  adds,  "  When  I  die,  I  could 
wish  that  some  friend  would  see  these  words,  and  no  other,  placed  above 'my  grave-—'  Itnplort 
tact.' " 


WELSH  MELODIES.  239 

For  their  sake,  for  the  dead — whose  image  naught, 
May  dim  within  the  temple  of  my  breast — 
For  their  love's  sake,  which  now  no  earthly  thought 
May  shake  or  tremble  with  its  own  unrest, 
Though  the  past  haunt  me  as  a  spirit — yet 
I  ask  not  to  forget. 


WELSH  MELODIES. 


THE  HARP  OF  WALES. 

INTRODUCTORY   STANZAS,    INSCRIBED  TO   THE   RUTHIN   WELSH  LITERARY 

SOCIETY. 

HARP  of  the  mountain-land  !  sound  forth  again 
As  when  the  foaming  Hirlas  horn  was  crowned, 

And  warrior  hearts  beat  proudly  to  the  strain, 

And  the  bright  mead  at  Owain's  feast  went  round: 

Wake  with  the  spirit  and  the  power  of  yore  ! 

Harp  of  the  ancient  hills  1  be  heard  once  more ! 

Thy  tones  are  not  to  cease !     The  Roman  came 
O'er  the  blue  waters  with  his  thousand  oars  : 

Through  Mona's  oaks  he  sent  the  wasting  flame ; 
The  Druid  shrines  lay  prostrate  on  our  shores: 

All  gave  their  ashes  to  the  wind  and  sea — 

Ring  out,  thou  harp  1  he  could  not  silence  thee. 

Thy  tones  are  not  to  cease  !     The  Saxon  passed, 

His  banners  floated  on  Eryri's  gales ; 
But  thou  wert  heard  above  the  trumpet's  blast, 

E'en  when  his  towers  rose  loftiest  o'er  the  vales ! 
Thine  was  the  voice  that  cheered  the  brave  and  free ; 
They  had  their  hills,  their  chainless  hearts,  and  thee. 

Those  were  dark  years  !— They  saw  the  valiant  fall, 
The  rank  weeds  gathering  round  the  chieftain's  board, 

The  hearth  left  lonely  in  the  ruined  hall — 
Yet  power  was  thine — a  gift  in  every  chord  1 

Call  back  that  spirit  to  the  days  of  peace, 

Thou  noble  harp  !  thy  tones  are  not  to  cease! 


240  WELSH  MEL  OD1ES. 


DRUID  CHORUS  ON  THE  LANDING  OF  THE  ROMANS 

BY  the  dread  and  viewless  powers 

Whom  the  storms  and  seas  obey, 
From  the  Dark  Isle's  J  mystic  bowers, 

Romans!  o'er  the  deep  away! 
Think  ye,  'tis  but  nature's  gloom 

O'er  our  shadowy  coast  which  broods? 
By  the  altar  and  the  tomb, 

Shun  these  haunted  solitudes  1 

Know  ye  Mona's  awful  spells  ? 

She  the  rolling  orbs  can  stay  ! 
She  the  mighty  grave  compels 

Back  to  yield  its  fettered  prey! 
Fear  ye  not  the  lightning-stroke  ? 

Mark  ye  not  the  fiery  sky  ? 
Hence  ! — around  our  central  oak 

Gods'  are-gathering — Romans,  fly! 


THE  GREEN  ISLES  OF  OCEAN.2 

WHERE  are  they,  those  green  fairy  islands,  reposing 

In  sunlight  and  beauty  on  ocean's  calm  breast? 
What  spirit  the  things  which  are  hidden  disclosing, 

Shall  point  the  bright  way  to  their  dwellings  of  rest  ? 
Oh !  lovely  they  rose  on  the  dreams  of  past  ages, 

The  mighty  have  sought  them,  undaunted  in  faith  ; 
But  the  land  hath  been  sad  for  her  warriors  and  sages, 

For  the  guide  to  those  realms  of  the  blessed  is  death. 

Where  are  they,  the  high-minded  children  of  glory, 

Who  steered  for  those  distant  green  spots  on  the  wave? 
To  the  winds  of  the  ocean  they  left  their  wild  story, 

In  the  fields  of  their  country  they  found  not  a  grave. 
Perchance  they  repose  where  the  summer-breeze  gathers 

From  the  flowers  of  each  vale  immortality's  breath ; 
But  their  steps  shall  be  ne'er  on  the  hills  of  their  fathers — 

For  the  guide  to  those  realms  of  the  blessed  is  death. 

1  Ynys  Dywyll,  or  the  Dark  Island — an  ancient  name  for  Anglesey. 

2  The  "Green  Islands  of  Ocean,"  or '•  Green  Spots  of  the   Floods,"  called  in  the    Trixds 
Gwerddonan  Lhon,"  (respecting  which  some  remarkable  superstitions  have  been  preserve-]  ir. 
Wales,)  were  supposed  to  be  the  abode  of  the  Fair  Family,  or  souis.  <-.i  the  vntuons  Druids,  who 
could  not  enter  the   Christian  heaven,  but  were  permitted  to  enjoy  this  paradise  of  their  own. 
Oafran,  a  distinguished  British  chieftain  of  the  fifth  century,  went  on  a  voyage  with  his  family  to 
discover  these  islands  ;  but  they  were   never  heard  of  afterwards.     This  event,  the  voyage  of 
Merddin  Emrys  with  his  twelve  bards,   and  the  expedition  of  Madoc,    were  called  the  three 
losses  by  disappearance  of  the  island  of  Britain, —  Vide  W,  O.   PUOHES'  Catnbrian  Biography^ 
jiso  Cambro-Brtion)  vol.  i.  p.  124. 


WELSH  MELODIES.  241 


THE  SEA-SONG  OF  GAFRAN.' 

WATCH  ye  well  I     The  moon  is  shrouded 

On  her  bright  throne ; 
Storms  are  gathering,  stars  are  clouded, 

Waves  make  wild  moan. 
'Tis  no  night  of  hearth-fires  glowing, 
And  gay  songs  and  wine -cups  flowing; 
But  of  winds,  in  darkness  blowing, 

O'er  seas  unknown ! 

In  the  dwellings  of  our  fathers, 

Round  the  glad  blaze, 
Now  the  festive  circle  gathers 

With  harps  and  lays  ; 
Now  the  rush-strewn  halls  are  ringing, 
Steps  are  bounding,  bards  are  singing, 
— Ay !  the  hour  to  hall  is  bringing 

Peace,  joy,  or  praise. 

Save  to  us,  our  night-watch  keeping, 

Storm-winds  to  brave, 
While  the  very  sea-bird  sleeping 

Rests  in  its  cave  ! 

Think  of  us  when  hearts  are  beaming, 
Think  of  us  when  mead  is  streaming, 
Ye,  of  whom  our  souls  are  dreaming 

On  the  dark  wave  I 


THE  HIRLAS  HORN. 

FILL  high  the  blue  hirlas,2  that  shines  like  the  wave,' 

When  sunbeams  are  bright  on  the  spray  of  the  sea: 
And  bear  thou  the  rich  foaming  mead  to  the  brave, 

The  dragons  of  battle,  the  sons  of  the  free  ! 
To  those  from  whose  spears,  in  the  shock  of  the  fight, 

A  beam,  like  heaven's  lightning,*  flashed  over  the  field; 
To  those  who  came  rushing  as  storms  in  their  might, 

Who  have  shivered  the  helmet,  and  cloven  the  shield; 
The  sound  of  whose  strife  was  like  oceans  afar, 
When  lances  were  red  from  the  harvest  of  war. 

1    x*.  Jote  to  the  "  Green  Isles  of  Ocean." 

*  ~Iiras,  from  Air,  long,  and  gins,  blue  or  azure. 

s  Fetth  the  horn,  that  we  may  drink  together,  whose  fjloss  is  like  'he  waves  of  the  sea ; 
whose  gTeen  handles  show  the  skill  of  the  artist,  and  are  tipped  with  go«i." — From  the  tfirlas 
Horn  of  OWAIM  CYFEILIOG. 

4  "  Heard  ye  in  Maelor  the  noise  of  war,  the  horrid  din  of  arms,  their  furious  onset,  loud  as  in 
the  battle  of  Bangor,  where  fire  flashed  out  of  their  spears  ?  " — Ibid- 


242  WELSH  MELUDJLS. 


Fill  high  the  blue  hirlas  !     O  cup-bearer,  fill 

For  the  lords  of  the  field  in  their  festival's  hour, 
And  let  the  mead  foam,  like  the  stream  of  the  hill 

That  bursts  o'er  the  rock  in  the  pride  of  its  power : 
Praise,  praise  to  the  mighty,  fill  high  the  smooth  horn 

Of  honor  and  mirth,1  for  the  conflict  is  o'er ; 
And  round  let  the  golden-tipped  hirlas  be  borne 

To  the  lion-defenders  of  Gwynedd's  fair  shore. 
Who  rushed  to  the  field  where  the  glory  was  won, 
As  eagles  that  soar  from  their  cliffs  to  the  sun. 

Fill  higher  the  hirlas  !  forgetting  not  those 

Who  share  its  bright  draught  in  the  days  that  are  fled! 
Though  cold  on  their  mountains  the  valiant  repose, 

Their  lot  shall  be  lovely — renown  to  the  dead ! 
While  harps  in  the  hall  of  the  feast  shall  be  strung, 

While  regal  Eryri  with  snow  shall  be  crowned — 
So  long  by  the  bards  shall  their  battles  be  sung, 

And  the  heart  of  the  hero  shall  burn  at  the  sound. 
The  free  winds  of  Maelor2  shall  swell  with  their  name, 
And  Owain's  rich  hirlas  be  filled  to  their  fame. 


THE  HALL  OF  CYNDDYLAN. 

THE  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  gloomy  to-night ; 3 
I  weep,  for  the  grave  has  extinguished  its  light  ; 
The  beam  of  the  lamp  from  its  summit  is  o'er, 
The  blaze  of  its  hearth  shall  give  welcome  no  more! 

The  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  voiceless  and  still, 
The  sound  of  its  harpings  hath  died  on  the  hill ! 
Be  silent  forever,  thou  desolate  scene, 
Nor  let  e'en  an  echo  recall  what  hath  been. 

"Fill,  then,  the  yellow-lipped  horn — badge  of  honor  and  mirth." — From  «h"  Hirlas  He? 

»f  OWAIN  CVFEIMOG. 

*  Maelor,  part  of  the  counties  ot  Denbigh  and  Flint,  according  to  the  i..odern  division. 
"  The  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  gloomy  this  night, 
Without  fire,  without  bed — 
I  must  weep  awhile,  and  then  be  silent. 
The  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  gloomy  this  night, 
Without  fire,  without  being  lighted — 
Be  thou  encircled  with  spreading  silent! 

The  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  without  love  this  night, 

Since  he  that  owned  it  is  no  more — 

Ah  Death  !  it  will  be  but  a  short  time  he  will  leave  me. 

The  Hall  of  Cynddylan  it  is  not  easy  this  night, 

On  the  top  of  the  rock  of  Hydwyth,_ 

Without  its  lord,  without  company,  without  the  circling  feasts!  " 

See  OWEN'S  Heroic  Elegies  of  Llywarck  He* 


WELSH  MELODIES.  243 


The  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  lonely  and  bare, 
No  banquet,  no  guest,  not  a  footstep  is  there! 
Oh  !  where  are  the  warriors  who  circled  its  board  ? 
— The  grass  will  soon  wave  where  the  mead-cup  was 
poured  1 

The  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  loveless  to-night, 
Since  he  is  departed  whose  smile  made  it  bright! 
I  mourn;  but  the  sigh  of  my  soul  shall  be  brief, 
The  pathway  is  short  to  the  grave  of  my  chief  I 


THE  LAMENT  OF  LLYWARCH  HEN. 

[Llywarch  Hen,  or  Llywarch  the  Aged,  a  celebrated  bard  and  chief  of  the  time  of  Arthur,  was 
prince  of  Argoed,  supposed  to  be  a  hart  of  the  present  Cumberland.  Having  sustained  the 
loss  of  his  patrimony,  and  witnessed  the  fail  of  most  of  his  sons,  in  the  unequal  contest  main- 
tained by  the  North  Britons  against  the  growing;  power  of  the  Saxons,  Llywarch  was  com- 
pelled to  fly  from  his  country,  and  seek  refuge  in  Wales.  He  there  found  an  asylum  for  some 
time  in  the  residence  of  Cynddylan,  Prince  of  Ppwys,  whose  fall  he  pathetically  laments  in 
one  of  his  poems.  These  are  still  extant ;  and  his  elegy  on  old  age  and  the  loss  of  his  sons, 
is  remarkable  for  its  simplicity  and  beauty. — See  Cambrian  Biography,  and  OWEN'S  Heroic 
Elegies  and  other  poems  of  Llywan-h  lien.} 

THE  bright  hours  return,  and  the  blue  sky  is  ringing 

With  song,  and  the  hills  are  all  manned  with  bloom; 

But  fairer  than  aught  which  the  summer  is  bringing, 

The  beauty  and  youth  gone  to  people  the  tomb ! 

Oh  !  wky  should  I  live  to  hear  music  resounding, 

Which  cannot  awake  ye,  my -lovely,  my  brave  ? 

Why  smile  the  waste  flowers,  my  sad  footsteps  surrounding? 

— My  sons  !  they  but  clothe  the  green  turf  of  youi  grave  ! 

Alone  on  the  rocks  of  the  stranger  I  linger, 
My  spirit  all  wrapt  in  the  past  as  a  dream  ! 
Mine  ear  hath  no  joy  in  the  voice  of  the  singer,1 
Mine  eye  sparkles  not  to  the  sunlight's  glad  beam ; 
Yet,  yet  I  live  on,  though  forsaken  and  weeping ! 
— O  grave  !  why  refuse  to  the  aped  thy  bed, 
When  valor's  high  heart  on  thy  bosom  is  sleeping, 
When  youth's  glorious  flower  is  gone  down  to  the  dead ! 

Fair  were  ye,  my  sons  !  and  all  kingly  your  bearing, 
As  on  to  the  fields  of  your  glory  ye  trode ! 
Each  prince  of  my  race  the  bright  golden  chain  wearing, 
Each  eye  glancing  lire,  shrouded  now  by  the  sod ! 2 


1 "  What  I  loved  when  I  was  a  youth  is  hateful  to  me  now." 
2  "  Four  and  twenty  sons  to  me  have  been 

Wearing  the  golden  chain,  and  leading  princes." 

Elegies  of  Llywarch  Hen. 

The  golden  chain,  as  a   badge   of  honor,  worn  by  heroes,  is  frequently   alluded  to  in  the 
Works  of  the  ancient  Pritish  bards. 


244  WELSH  MELODIES. 

I  weep  when  the  blast  of  the  trumpet  is  sounding, 

Which  rouses  ye  not,  O  my  lovely  f  my  brave  ! 

When  warriors  and  chiefs  to  their  proud  steeds  are  bounding, 

I  turn  from  heaven's  light,  for  it  smiles  on  your  grave  1  * 


GRUFYDD'S  FEAST. 

I"  Grufyddab  Rhys  abTewdwr,  having  resisted  the  English  successfully  in  the  time  of  Stephen, 
and  at  last  obtained  from  them  an  honorable  peace,  made  a  great  feast  at  his  palace  in  Ystrad 
Tytui  to  celebrate  this  event.  To  this  feast,  which  was  continued  for  forty  days,  he  invited 
all  who  would  come  in  peace  from  Gwynedd,  Powys  the  Deheitbarth,  Glamorgan,  and  the 
marches.  Against  the  appointed  time  he  prepared  all  kinds  of  delicious  viands  and  liquors  ; 
with  every  entertainment  of  vocal  and  instrumental  song  :  thus  patronizing  the  poets  and 
musicians.  He  encouraged,  too,  all  sorts  of  representations  and  manly  games,  and  afterwards 
sent  away  all  those  who  had  excelled  in  them  with  honorable  gilts." — Cambrian  Biography. 

LET  the  yellow  mead  shine  for  the  sons  of  the  brave, 
By  the  bright  festal  torches  around  us  that  wave  ! 
Set  open  the  gates  of  the  prince's  wide  hall, 
And  hang  up  the  chief's  ruddy  spear  on  the  wall ! 

There  is  peace  in  the  land  we  have  battled  to  save: 
Then  spread  ye  the  feast,  bid  the  wine-cup  foam  high,2 
That  those  may  rejoice  who  have  feared  not  to  die  ! 

Let  the  horn  whose  loud  blast  gave  the  signal  for  fight, 
With  the  bee's  sunny  nectar  now  sparkle  in  light ;  3 
Let  the  rich  draught  it  offers  with  gladness  be  crowned, 
For  the  strong  hearts  in  combat  that  leaped  at  its  sound ! 

Like  the  billows'  dark  swell  was  the  path  of  their  might, 
Red,  red  as  their  blood,  fill  the  wine-cup  on  high, 
That  those  may  rejoice  who  have  feared  not  to  die  ! 

And  wake  ye  the  children  of  song  from  their  dreams, 
On  Maelor's  wild  hills  and  by  Dyfed's  fair  streams  1 « 
Bid  them  haste  with  those  strains  of  the  lofty  and  free, 
Which  shall  float  down  the  waves  of  long  ages  to  be. 

Sheath  the  sword  which  hath  given  them  unperishing  themes, 
And  pour  the  bright  mead  :  let  the  wine-cup  foam  high, 
That  those  may  rejoice  who  have  feared  not  to  die  ! 

1  "  Hardly  has  the  snow  covered  the  vale, 

When  the  warriors  are  hastening  to  the  battle  ; 
I  do  not  go,  I  am  hindered  by  infirmity." 

Elegies  of  Llywarch  Hen. 

1  Wine,  as  well  as  mead,  is  frequently  mentioned  in  the  poems  of  the  ancient  British  bards. 
*The  horn  was  used  for  two  purposes — to  sound  the  alarm  in  war,  and  to  drink  the  mead  a 

•  Maelor,  part  of  the  counties  of  Denbigh  and  Flint.     Dyfed  (said  to  signify  a  land  abound- 
ing with  streams  of  water),  the  modern  Pembrokeshire. 


WELSH  MELODIES.  245 

THE  CAMBRIAN  IN  AMERICA. 

WHEN  the  last  flush  of  eve  is  dying 

On  boundless  lakes  afar  that  shine  : 
When  winds  amidst  the  palms  are  sighing, 

And  fragrance  breathes  from  every  pine  : ' 
When  stars  through  cypress  boughs  are  gleaming, 

And  fire-flies  wander  bright  and  free, 
Still  of  thy  harps,  thy  mountains  dreaming, 

My  thoughts,  wild  Cambria  !  dwell  with  thee  I 
Alone  o'er  green  savannas  roving, 

Where  some  broad  stream  in  silence  flows, 
Or  through  the  eternal  forests  moving, 

One  only  home  my  spirit  knows ! 
Sweet  land,  whence  memory  ne'er  hath  parted ! 

To  thee  on  sleep's  light  wing  I  fly ; 
But  happier  could  the  weary-hearted 

Look  on  his  own  blue  hills  and  diet 


THE  FAIR  ISLE.* 

FOR  THE   MELODY  CALLED  THE  "  WELSH  GROUND." 

[The  Bard  of  the  Palace,  under  the  ancient  Welsh  Princes,  always  accompanied  the  army  whe« 
it  marched  into  an  enemy's  country  ;  and,  while  it  was  preparing  fcr  battle,  or  dividing  the 
spoils,  he  performed  an  ancient  song,  called  Unbennaetk  Prydain,  the  Monarchy  of  Britain. 


. ...  :  pr  . 

the  performance  of  this  song,  was  rewarded  with  the  most  valuable  beast  that  remained.— Sei 
JONES'S  Historical  Account  of  the  Welsh  Bards.] 

SONS  of  the  Fair  Isle  !  forget  not  the  time 

Ere  spoilers  had  breathed  the  free  air  of  your  c'imt  : 

All  that  its  eagles  behold  in  their  flight 

Was  yours,  from  the  deep  of  each  storm-mantled  height, 

Though  from  your  race  that  proud  birthright  be  torn, 

Unquenched  is  the  spirit  for  monarchy  born. 

CHORUS. 

Darkly  though  clouds  may  hang  o'er  us  awhile. 
The  crown  shall  not  pass'from  the  Beautiful  Isle. 

Ages  may  roll  ere  your  children  regain 
The  land  for  which  heroes  have  perished  in  vain ; 
Yet,  in  the  sound  of  your  names  shall  be  power, 
Around  her  still  gathering  in  glory's  full  hour. 
Strong  in  the  fame  of  the  mighty  that  sleep, 
Your  Britain  shall  sit  on  the  throne  of  the  deep. 

1  Tht  aromatic  odor  of  the  pine  has  frequently  been  mentioned  by  travellers. 

1  Ynys  Prydam  was  the  ancient  Welsh  name  of  Britain,  and  signifies./a;r  or  beautiful  islt- 


WELSH- MELODIES. 


CHORUS. 

Then  shall  their  spirits  rejoice  in  her  smile, 
Who  died  for  the  crown  of  the  Beautiful  Isle. 


TALIESIN'S  PROPHECY. 

iA  prophecy  of  Taliesin  relating  to  the  Ancient  Britons  is  still  extant,  and  has  been  strikingi . 
verified.     It  is  to  the  following  effect  :  — 

"  Their  God  they  shall  worship, 
Their  language  they  shall  retain, 
Their  land  they  shall  lose, 
Except  wild  Wales."] 

A  VOICE  from  time  departed  yet  floats  thy  hills  among, 

0  Cambria !  thus  thy  prophet  bard,  thy  Taliesin  sung: 
"  The  path  of  unborn  ages  is  traced  upon  my  soul, 

The  clouds  which  mantle  things  unseen  away  before  me  roll, 

A  light  the  depths  revealing  hath  o'er  my  spirit  passed, 

A  rushing  sound  from  days  to  be  swells  fitful  in  the  blast, 

And  tells  me  that  forever  shall  live  the  lofty  tongue 

To  which  the  harp  of  Mona's  woods  by  freedom's  hand  was  strung. 

"Green  island  of  the  mighty!1  I  see  thine  ancient  race 

Driven  from  their  father's  realm  to  make  the  rocks  their  dwelling-place! 

1  see  from  Uthyr's2  kingdom  the  sceptre  pass  away, 

And  many  a  line  of  bards  and  chiefs  and  princely  men  decay 

But  long  as  Arvon's  mountains  shall  lift  their  sovereign  forms, 

And  wear  the  crown  to  which  is  given  dominion  o'er  the  storms, 

So  long,  their  empire  sharing,  shall  live  the  lofty  tongue 

To  which  the  harp  of  Mona's  woods  by  freedom's  hand  was  strung!" 


OWEN  GLYNDWR'S  WAR-SONG. 


SAW  ye  the  blazing  star  ? 3 
The  heavens  looked  down  on  freedom's 
war, 

And  lit  her  torch  on  high  ! 
Bright  on  the  dragon  crest  •* 
It  tells  that  glory's  wing  shall 

When  warriors  meet  to  die  ! 


Let  earth's  pale  tyrants  read  despair 
And  vengeance  in  its  flame  ; 

Hail  ye,  my  bards !  the  omen  fair 
Of  conquest  and  of  fame, 

And  swell  the  rushing  mountain  air 
With  songs  of  Glyndwr's  name. 


1  Y>iys y  Cedeirn,  or  Isle  of  the  Mighty — an  ancient  name  given  to  Britain. 

"  Ulhyr  Pendragon,  king  of  Britain,  supposed  to  have  been  the  father  of  Arthur. 

8  The  year  1402  was  ushered  in  with  a  comet  or  blazing  star,  which  the  bards  interpreted  as 
an  omen  favorable  to  the  cause  of  Glyndwr.  It  served  to  infuse  spirit  into  the  minds  of  a  super- 
stitious people,  the  first  success  of  their  chieftain  confirmed  this  belief,  and  gave  new  vigor  to 
their  actions. — PENNANT. 

4  Owen  Glyndwr  styled  himself  the  Dragon  ;  a  name  he  assumed  in  imitation  of  Uthyr,  whose 
victories  over  the  Saxons  were  foretold  by  the  appearances  of  a  star  with  a  dragon  beneath,  which 
Uthyr  used  as  his  badge  ;  and  on  that  account  it  became  a  favorite  among  the  Welsh. — PBN- 
Kurt. 


WELSH  MELODIES. 


24? 


At  the  dead  hour  of  night, 

Marked  ye  how  each  majestic  height 

Burned  in  its  awful  beams? 
Reel  shone  the  eternal  snows, 
And  all  the  land,  as  bright  it  rose, 

Was  full  of  glorious  dreams ! 

O  eagles  of  the  battle,1  rise  ! 

The  hope  of  Gwynedd  wakes  ! 2 
It  is  your  banner  in  the  skies 

Through     each    dark    cloud    which 

breaks, 
And  mantles  with  triumphal  dyes 

Your  thousand  hills  and  lakes! 

A  sound  is  on  the  breeze, 

A  murmur  as  of  swelling  seas! 

The  Saxon  on  his  way ! 
Lo  !  spear  and  shield  and  lance, 
From    Deva's    waves    with    lightning 
glance, 

Reflected  to  the  day  ! 


But  who  the  torrent-wav?  compels 
A  conqueror's  chain  to  bear  ? 

Let  those  who  wake  the  soul  that  dwells 
On  our  free  winds  beware  ! 

The  greenest  and  the  loveliest  dells 
May  be  the  lion's  lair ! 

Of  us  they  told,  the  seers, 

And  monarch  bards  of  elder  years, 

Who  walked  on  earth  as  powers  ! 
And  in  their  burning  strains, 
A  spell  of  might  and  mystery  reigns, 

To  guard  our  mountain  towers  1 

— In  Snowdon's  caves  a  prophet  lay : 

Before  his  gifted  sight, 
The  march  of  ages  passed  away 

With  hero-footsteps  bright, 
But  proudest  in  that  long  array 

Was  Glyndwr's  path  of  light ! 


PRINCE  MADOC'S  FAREWELL. 

WHY  lingers  my  gaze  where  the  last  hues  of  day 
On  the  hills  of  my  country  in  loveliness  sleep  ? 

Too  fair  is  the  sight  for  a  wanderer,  whose  way 
Lies  far  o'er  the  measureless  worlds  of  the  deep  1 

Fall,  shadows  of  twilight !  and  veil  the  green  shore, 

That  the  heart  of  the  mighty  may  waver  no  more  ! 

Why  rise  on  my  thoughts,  ye  free  songs  of  the  land 

Where  the  harp's  lofty  soul  on  each  wild  wind  is  borne? 

Be  hushed,  be  forgotten !  for  ne'er  shall  the  hand 
Of  minstrel  with  melody  greet  my  return. 

— No  !  no ! — let  your  echoes  still  float  on  the  breeze, 

And  my  heart  shall  be  strong  for  the  conquest  of  seas ! 

'Tis  not  for  the  land  of  my  sires  to  give  birth 

Unto  bosoms  that  shrink  when  their  trial  is  nigh ; 

Away  !  we  will  bear  over  ocean  and  earth 
A  name  and  a  spirit  that  never  shall  die. 

My  course  to  the  winds,  to  the  stars,  I  resign  ; 

But  my  soul's  quenchless  fire,  O  my  country !  is  thine. 


1  "  Bring  the  horn  to  Tudwrou,  the  Eagle  of  Battles."— See  The  Htrias  Horn  of  OWAIX 
CVFEILIOO.  The  eagle  is  a  very  favorite  image  with  the  ancient  Welsh  pouts. 

*  GWYNEDU  (pronounced  Gwyneth),  North  Wales. 

'  Merlin,  Merddin  Emrys,  is  said  to  have  composed  his  prophecies  on  the  future  lot  of  the 
Britons  amongst  the  mountains  of  Snowdon.  Many  of  these,  and  other  ancient  prophecies, 
were  applied  by  Giyndwr  to  his  own  cause,  and  assisted  him  greatly  in  animating  the  spirit  of 
bis  followers. 


248 


WELSH  MELODIES. 


CASWALLON'S  TRIUMPH. 

[Caswallon  (or  Cassivelaunus)  was  elected  to  the  supreme  command  of  the  Britons  (as  recorded 
in  the  Triads),  for  the  purpose  of  opposing  Caesar,  under  the  title  of  Elected  Chief  of  Battle. 
Whatever  impression  the  disciplined  legions  of  Rome  might  have  made  on  the  Britons  in 
the  first  instance,  the  subsequent  departure  of  Csesar  they  considered  as  a  cause  of  triumph  ; 
and  it  is  stated  that  Caswallon  proclaimed  an  assembly  of  the  various  states  of  the  island,  foi 
the  purpose  of  celebrating  that  event  by  feasting  and  public  rejoicing — See  the  Cambrian 
Biography.} 


FROM  the  glowing  southern  regions, 
Where  the  sun-god  makes  his  dwell- 
ing, 

Came  the  Roman's  crested  legions 
O'er  the  deep,  round  Britain  swelling. 

The  wave  grew  dazzling  as  he  passed, 

With  light  from  spear  and  helmet  cast ; 

And  sounds  in  every  rushing  blast 
Of  a  conqueror's  march  were  telling, 

But  his  eagle's  royal  pinion, 
Bowing  earth  beneath  its  glory, 

Could  not  shadow  with  dominion 
Our  wild  seas  and  mountains  hoary ! 


Back  from  their  cloudy  realm  it  flies, 

To  float  in  light  through  softer  skies ; 

Oh !  chainless  winds  of  heaven  arise ! 

Bear  a  vanquished  world  the  story ! 

Lords  of  earth!  to  Rome  returning, 
Tell  how  Britain  combat  wages, 

How  Caswallon's  soul  is  burning 
When  the  storm  of  battle  rages! 

And  ye  that  shrine  high  deeds  in  song, 

O  holy  and  immortal  throng ! 

The  brightness  of  his  name  prolong, 
As  a  torch  to  stream  through  ages? 


HOWEL'S    SONG. 

Howel  ab  Einion  Llygliw  was  a  distinguished  bard  of  the  fourteenth  century.  A  beautiful 
poem,  addressed  by  him  to  Myfanwy  Vychan,  a  celebrated  beauty  of  those  times,  is  still  pre- 
served amongst  the  remains  of  the  Welsh  bards.  The  ruins  of  Myfanwy's  residence,  Castle 
Dinas  Bran,  may  yet  be  traced  on  a  high  hill  near  Llangollen.] 


PRESS  on,  my  steed  !  I  hear  the  swell * 
Of  Valle  Crucis'  vesper-bell, 
Sweet  floating  from  the  holy  dell 

O'er  woods  and  waters  round. 
Perchance  the  maid  I  love,  e'en  now, 
From  Dinas  Erin's  majestic  brow, 
Looks  o'er  the  fairy  world  below, 

And  listens  to  the  sound  ! 

I  feel  her  presence  on  the  scene  I 

The  summer  air  is  more  serene ! 

The  deep  woods  wave  in  richer  green, 

The  wave  more  gently  flows  I 
O  fair  as  Ocean's  curling  foam !  * 
Lo  !  with  the  balmy  hour  I  come — 


The   hour    that  brings   the   wanderer 

home, 
The  weary  to  repose ! 

Haste !  on  each  mountain's  darkening 

crest 

The  glow  hath  died,  the  shadows  rest, 
The  twilight  star  on  Deva's  breast 

Gleams  tremulously  bright ; 
Speed  for  Myfanwy's  bower  on  high ! 
Though  scorn  may  wound  me  from  her 

eye, 
Oh  !  better  by  the  sun  to  die, 

Than  live  in  rayless  night ! 


1  "  I  have  rode  hard,  mounted  on  a  fine  high-bred  steed,  upon  thy  acccount.  O  thou  with 
the  countenance  of  cherry-flower  bloom.  The  speed  was  with  eagerness,  and  the  strong  long- 
hammed  steed  of  Alban  reached  the  summit  of  the  high  land  of  Bran." 

1  ••  My  loving  heart  sinks  with  grief  without  thy  support,  O  thou  that  hast  the  whiteness  of 
the  curling  waves!  .  .  .  I  know  thai  this  pain  will  avail  me  nothing  towards  obtaining  thy 
love,  O  thou  whose  countenance  is  bright  as  the  flowers  of  the  hawthorn  !  " — HOWBL'S  Ode  to 
Jtfy/anvy, 


WELSH  MELODIES. 


249 


THE   MOUNTAIN    FIRES. 

I4'  The  custom  retained  in  Wales  of  lighting  fires  (Coelcertht)  on  November  eve,  is  said  to  be  a 
traditional  memorial  of  the  massacre  of  the  British  chiefs  by  Hengist,  on  Salisbury  plain. 
The  practice  is,  however  of  older  date,  and  had  reference  originally  to  the  Alban  Elved,  or 
new-year." — Cambro-Briton. 

When  these  fires  are  kindled  on  the  mountains,  and  seen  through  the  darkness  of  a  stormy 
night,  casting  a  red  and  fitful  glare  over  heath  and  rock,  their  effect  is  strikingly  pic- 
turesque.] 


LIGHT  the  hills !  till  heaven  is  glowing 

As  with  some  red  meteor's  rays  ! 
Winds  of  night,  though  rudely  blowing, 

Shall  but  fan  the  beacon-blaze. 
Light  the  hills  !  till  flames  are  stream- 
ing 

From  Yr  Wyddfa's  sovereign  steep,1 
To  the  waves  round  Mona  gleaming, 

Where  the  Roman  tracked  the  deep  ! 

Be  the  mountain  watch-fires  heightened, 
Pile  them  to  the  stormy  sky  ! 

Till  each  torrent  wave  is  brightened, 
Kindling  as  it  rushes  by. 


Now  each  rock,  the  mist's  high  dwell- 
ing, 

Towers  in  reddening  light  sublime  ; 
Heap  the  flames  !  around  them  telling 

Tales  of  Cambria's  elder  time. 

Thus  our  sires,  the  fearless-hearted, 

Many  a  solemn  vigil  kept, 
When,  in  ages  long  departed, . 

O'er  the  noble  dead  they  wept. 
In  the  winds  we  hear  their  voices — 

"  Sons  !  though  yours  a  brighter  lot, 
When  the  mountain-land  rejoices, 

Be  her  mighty  unforgot ! " 


ERYRI   WEN. 

["  Snowdon  was  held  as  sacred  by  the  ancient  Britons,  as  Parnassus  was  by  the  Greeks,  and  Ida 
by  the  Cretans.  It  is  still  said,  that  whosoever  slept  upon  Snowdon  would  wake  inspired,  as 
much  as  if  he  had  taken  a  nap  on  the  hill  of  Apollo.  The  Welsh  had  always  the  strongest 
attachment  to  the  tract  of  Snowdon.  Our  princes  had,  in  addition  to  their  title,  that  of  Lord 
of  Snowdon." — PENNANT.] 


THEIRS   was   no  dream,   O    monarch 

hill, 

With  heaven's  own  azure  crowned  ! 
Who  called  thee — what  thou  shall  be 

still, 
White  Snowdon! — holy  ground. 

They  fabled  not,  thy  sons  who  told 
Of  the  dread  power  enshrined 

Within  thy  cloudy  mantle's  fold, 
And  on  thy  rushing  wind  ! 


It  shadowed  o'er  thy  silent  height, 
It  filled  thy  chainless  air, 

Deep  thoughts  of  majesty  and  might 
Forever  breathing  there. 

Nor  hath  it  fled !  the  awful  spell 
Yet  holds  unbroken  sway, 

As  when  on  that  wild  rock  it  fell 
Where  Merddin  Emyrs  lay!2 


1  Yr  Wyddfa,  the  Welsh  name  of  Snowdon,  said  to  mean  the  conspicuous  plaee,  or  obiect. 

2  Dinas  Emrys  (the  fortress  of  Ambrose),  a  celebrated  rock  amongst  the  mountains  of  Snow- 
don, is  said  to  be  so  called  from  having   been   the  residence    of  Merddin  Emrys,  called  by  the 
Latins  Merlinus  Ambrosius,  the  celebrated  prophet  and  magician  :  and  there,  tradition  says,  he 
wrote  his  prophecies  concerning  the  future  state  of  the  Britons. 

There  is  another  curious  tradition  respecting        large  stone,   on   the  ascent  of  Snowdon, 
called  Maenduyr  Arddu,  the  black  stone  of  Arddu.     It  is  said,  that  if  two  persons  were 
sleep  a  night  on  this  stone,  in  the  morning  one  would  find  himself  endowed  with  the  gift  of 
poetry,  and  the  other  would  become  insane.— See  WILLIAMS'S  Observations  on  the  Snowdon 
^fountains. 


250 


WELSH  MELODIES. 


Though  from  their  stormy  haunts  of 
yore 

Thine  eagles  long  have  flown,1 
As  proud  a  flight  the  soul  shall  soar 

Yet  from  thy  mountain-throne  ! 

Pierce  then  the  Heavens,  thou  hill  of 

streams ! 
And  make  the  snows  thy  crest ! 


The  sunlight  of  immortal  dreams 
Around  thee  still  shall  rest. 


Eryri !  temple  of  the  bard  ! 

And  fortress  of  the  free  ! 
Midst    rocks    which    heroes    died 
guard, 

Their  spirit  dwells  with  thee ! 


CHANT  OF  THE  BARDS  BEFORE  THEIR 'MASSACRE  BY 
EDWARD  I.2 

RAISE  ye  the  sword  !  let  the  death-stroke  be  given; 
Oh  !  swift  may  it  fall  as  the  lightning  of  heaven  ! 
So  shall  our  spirits  be  free  as  our  strains — • 
The  children  of  song  may  not  languish  in  chains  ! 

Have  ye  not  trampled  our  country's  bright  crest  ? 
Are  heroes  reposing  in  death  on  her  breast  ? 
Red  with  their  blood  do  her  mountain-streams  flow, 
And  think  ye  that  still  we  would  linger  below? 

Rest,  ye  brave  dead  !  midst  the  hills  of  your  sires. 
Oh  !  who  would  not  slumber  when  freedom  expires  ? 
Lonely  and  voiceless  your  halls  must  remain — 
The  children  of  song  may  not  breathe  in  the  chain ! 


THE  DYING  BARD'S  PROPHECY.3 

"  All  is  not  lost — the  unconquerable  will 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield." — MILTPM. 

THE  hall  of  harps  is  lone  to-night, 

And  cold  the  chieftain's  hearth: 
It  hath  no  mead,  it  hath  no  light ; 

No  voice  of  melody,  no  sound  of  mirth. 

The  bow  lies  broken  on  the  floor 

Whence  the  free  step  is  gone ; 
The  pilgrim  turns  him  from  the  door 

Where  minstrel  blood  hath  stained  the  threshold  stone. 

1  It  is  believed  amongst  the  inhabitants  of  the*:'  iT^Ontains,  that  eagles  have  heretofore  bred 
in  the  lofty  clefts  of  their  rocks.     Some  wandering  ones  are  still  seen  at  times,  though   very 
rarely,  amongst  the  precipices.— See  WILLIAMS'S  Observations  on  the  Snowdon  Mountains. 

2  This  sanguinary  deed  is  not  attested  by  any  historian  of  credit.     And  it  deserves  to  be  also 
soticed,  that  none  of  the  bardic  productions  since  the  time  of  Edward  make  any  allusion  to  such 
an  event. — See  The  Camoro- Briton,  vol.  i.,  p.  195. 

3  At  the  time  of  the  supposed  massacre  of  the  Welsh  bards  by  Edward  the  First. 


WELSH  MELODIES.  251 


"  And  I,  too,  go:  my  wound  is  deep, 

My  brethren  long  have  died  ; 
Yet,  ere  my  soul  grow  dark  with  sleep, 

Winds  !  bear  the  spoiler  one  more  tone  of  pride  \ 

"Bear  it  where,  on  his  battle-plain, 

Beneath  the  setting  sun, 
He  counts  my  country's  noble  slain — 

Say  to  him — Saxon,  think  not  all  is  won. 

"  Thou  hast  laid  low  the  warrior's  head, 

The  minstrel's  chainless  hand  : 
Dreamer  !  that  numberest  with  the  dead 

The  burning  spirit  of  the  mountain-land  1 

"  Thinkst  thou,  because  the  song  hath  seized, 

The  soul  of  song  is  flown  ? 
Thinkst  thou  it  woke  to  crown  the  feast, 

It  lived  beside  the  ruddy  hearth  alone  ? 

*'  No !  by  our  wrongs,  and  by  our  blood  ! 

We  leave  it  pure  and  free  ; 
Though  hushed  awhile,  that  sounding  flood 

Shall  roll  in  joy  through  ages  yet  to  be. 

"  We  leave  it  midst  our  country's  woe — 

The  birthright  of  her  breast ; 
We  leave  it  as  we  leave  the  snow 

Bright  and  eternal  on  Eryri's '  crest 

"  We  leave  it  with  our  fame  to  dwell 

Upon  our  children's  breath  ; 
Our  voice  in  theirs  through  time  shall  swell — 

The  bard  hath  gifts  of  prophecy  from  death." 

He  dies ;  but  yet  the  mountains  stand, 

Yet  sweeps  the  torrent's  tide  ; 
And  this  is  yet  Aneurin's2  land — 
Winds !  bear  the  spoiler  one  more  tone  of  pride  ! 


THE    ROCK    OF   CADER   IDRIS. 

i"Tt  is  an  old  tradition  of  the  Welsh  bards,  that  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain  Caticr  I 

excavation  resembling  a  couch  ;  and  that  whoever  should  pass  a  night  in  that  hollow,  wou. 
be  found  in  the  morning  either  dead,  in  a  frenzy,  or  endowed  with  the  highest  poetical  in 
spiration.]  • 

,  I  LAY  on  that'rock  where  the  storms  hr.ve  their  dwelling, 
The  birthplace  of  phantoms,  the  home  ot  the  cloud  ; 

1  Eryri,  Welsh  name  for  the  Snowdon  mountains, 
*  Aueurin,  one  of  the  noblest  of  the  Welsh  bards. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CID. 


Around  it  forever  deep  music  is  swelling, 

The  voice  of  the  mountain-wind,  solemn  and  loud. 

'Twas  a  midnight  of  shadows  all  fitfully  streaming, 
Of  wild  waves  and  breezes,  that  mingled  their  moan; 

Of  dim  shrouded  stars,  as  from  gulfs  faintly  gleaming ; 
And  I  met  the  dread  gloom  of  its  grandeur  alone. 

I  lay  there  in  silence — a  spirit  came  o'er  me  ; 

Man's  tongue  hath  no  language  to  speak  what  I  saw; 
Things  glorious,  unearthly,  passed  floating  before  me, 

And  my  heart  almost  fainted  with  rapture  and  awe. 
I  viewed  the  dread  beings  around  us  that  hover, 

Though  veiled  "by  the  mists  of  mortality's  breath; 
And  I  called  upon  darkness  the  vision  to  cover, 

For  a  strife  was  within  me  of  madness  and  death. 

I  saw  them — the  powers  of  the  wind  and  the  ocean, 

The  rush  of  whose  pinion  bears  onward  the  storms  ; 
Like  the  sweep  of  the  white  rolling  wave  was  their  motion— 

I  felt  their  dim  presence,  but  knew  not  their  forms  ! 
I  saw  them — the  mighty  of  ages  departed — 

The  dead  were  around  me  that  night  on  the  hill  : 
From  their  eyes,  as  they  passed,  a  cold  radiance  they  darted,- 

There  was  light  on  my  soul,  but  my  heart's  blood  was  chill 

I  saw  what  man  looks  on,  and  dies — but  my  spirit 

Was  strong,  and  triumphantly  lived  through  that  hour  ; 
And,  as  from  the  grave,  I  awoke  to  inherit 

A  flame  all  immortal,  a  voice,  and  a  power  I 
Day  burst  on  that  rock  with  the  purple  cloud  crested, 

And  high  Cader  Idris  rejoiced  in  the  sun  ; — 
But  oh  !  what  new  glory  all  nature  invested, 

When  the  sense  which  gives  soul  to  her  beauty  was  won/ 


SONGS  OF  THE  CID. 


These  ballads  are  not  translations  from  the  Spanish,  but  are  founded  upon  some  erf  ths 
"wild  and  wonderful  "  traditions  preserved  in  the  romances  of  that  language,  and  ihe  ancient 
!>oem  of  the  Cid. 


THE  CID'S   DEPARTURE  INTO 
EXILE. 

WITH  sixty  knights  in  his  gallant  train, 
Went  forth  the  Campeador  of  Spain  ; 
For  wild  sierras  and  plains  afar, 
He  left  the  lands  of  his  own  Bivar. 


To  march  o'er  field,  and   to  watch  in 

tent, 
From   his    home   in   good    Castile   he 

went ; 
To  the  wasting  siege  and  the  battle's 

van, 
— For  the  noble  Cid  was  a  banisheCT 

man! 


SOJVGS  OF  THE  CID. 


253 


Through  his  olive-woods  the  morn- 
breeze  played, 

And  his  native  streams  wild  music 
made, 

And  clear  in  the  sunshine  his  vineyards 
lav,  ' 

When  for  march  and  combat  he  took 
his  way. 

With  a  thoughtful  spirit  his  way  he 
took, 

Knd  he  turned  his  steed  for  a  parting 
look, 

For  a  parting  look  at  his  own  fair  tow- 
ers, 

—Oh  !  the  exile's  heart  hath  weary 
hours! 

The  pennons  were  spread,  and  the  band 

arrayed, 
But  the  Cid  at  the  threshold  a  moment 

stayed — 
It  was  but  a  moment;  the  halls  were 

lone, 
And  the  gates  of  his  dwelling  all  open 

thrown. 

There  was  not  a  steed  in  the  empty 

stall, 
Nor  a  spear  nor  a  cloak  on  the  naked 

wall, 
Nor  a  hawk  on  the  perch,  nor  a  seat  at 

the  door, 
Nor  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  hollow 

floor. 

Then  a  dim  tear  swelled  to  the  war- 
rior's eye, 

As  the  voice  of  his  native  groves  went 
by; 

And  he  said — "  My  foemen  their  wish 
have  won : 

Now  the  will  of  God  be  in  all  things 
done  ! " 

But  the  trumpet  blew,  with"  its  note  of 

cheer, 
And  the  winds  of  the  morning  swept 

off  the  tear, 
And  the  fields  of  his  glory  lay  distant 

far, 
•-He  is  gone  from  the  towers  of  his 

own  Bivar! 


THE  CID'S  DEATH-BED. 

IT  was  an  hour  of  grief  and  fear 

Within  Valencia's  walls, 
When  the  blue  spring-heaven  lay  sti'l 
and  clear 

Above  her  marble  halls. 

There  were  pale  cheeks  and  troubled 

eyes, 

And  steps  of  hurrying  feet, 
Where  the  Zambra's  notes  were  wont 

to  rise, 
Along  the  sunny  street. 

It  was  an  hour  of  fear  and  grief, 
On  bright  Valencia's  shore, 

For  Death  was  busy  with  her  chief, 
The  noble  Campeador. 

The   Moor-king's   barks  were  on   the 
deep, 

With  sounds  and  signs  of  war  ; 
But  the  Cid  was  passing  to  his  sleep, 

In  the  silent  Alcazar 

No  moan  was  heard  through  the  towers 
of  state, 

No  weeper's  aspect  seen, 
But  by  the  couch  Ximena  sate, 

With  pale  yet  steadfast  mien. 

Stillness  was  round  the  leader's  bed, 
Warriors  stood  mournful  nigh, 

And  banners,  o'er  his  glorious  head, 
Were  drooping  heavily. 

And  feeble  grew  the  conquering  hand, 
And  cold  the  valiant  breast ; 

He  had  fought  the  battles  of  the  land, 
And  his  hour  was  come  to  rest. 

What  said  the  Ruler  of  the  field  ? 

— His  voice  is  faint  and  low  ; 
The  breeze  that  creeps  o'er  his  lane  t 
and  shield 

Hath  louder  accents  now. 

"  Raise  ye  no  cry,  and  let  no  moan 

Be  made  when  I  depart ; 
The  Moor  must  hear  no  dirge's  tone ; 

Be  ye  of  mighty  heart ! 


*S4 


SONGS  OF  THE  CID. 


•'  Let  the  cymbal-clash  and  the  trumpet- 
strain 

From  your  walls  ring  far  and  shrill ; 
And  fear  ye  not,  for  the  saints  of  Spain 

Shall  grant  you  victory  still. 

"  And  gird  my  form  with  mail-array, 

And  set  me  on  my  steed  ; 
So  go  ye  forth  on  your  funeral-way, 

And  God  shall  give  you  speed. 

"  Go  with  the  dead  in  the  front  of  war, 
All  armed  with  sword  and  helm, 

And  march  by  the  camp  of  KingBucar, 
For  the  good  Castilian  realm. 

"  And  let  me  slumber  in  the  soil 
Which  gave  my  fathers  birth; 

I  have  closed  my  day  of  battle-toil, 
And  my  course  is  done  on  earth." 

— Now    wave,   ye    glorious    banners ! 

wave! 

Through  the  lattice  a  wind  sweeps  by, 
And  the  arms,  o'er  the  deathbed  of  the 

brave, 
Send  forth  a  hollow  sigh. 

Now  wave,  ye  banners  of  many  a  fight  ? 

As  the  fresh  wind  o'er  you  sweeps ; 
The  wind  and  the  banners  fall  hushed 
as  night : 

The  Campeador — he  sleeps ! 

Sound  the  battle-horn  on  the  breeze  of 

morn, 

And  swell  out  the  trumpet's  blast, 
Till  the  notes  prevail  o'er  the  voice  of 

wail, 
For  the  noble  Cid  hath  passed! 


THE  CID'S  FUNERAL  PROCES- 
SION. 

THE  Moor  had  beleaguered  Valencia's 

towers, 
And  lances  gleamed   up  through  her 

citron-bowers. 
And  the  tents  of  the  desert  had  girt 

her  plain, 
And  camels  were  trampling  the  vines 

of  Spain  ; 
For  the  Cid  was  gone  to  rest. 


There  were  men  from  wilds  where  th« 

death-wind  sweeps, 
There  were  spears  from  hills  where  tin 

lion  sleeps, 
There  were  bows  from  sands  where  the 

ostrich  runs, 
For  the  shrill  horn  of  Afric  had  called 

her  sons 
To  the  battles  of  the  west. 

The  midnight  bell,  o'er  the  dim  seas 

heard, 
Like  the  roar  of   waters,  the  air  had 

stirred ; 
The  stars  were  shining  o'er  tower  and 

wave, 
And  the  camp  lay  hushed  as  a  wizard's 

cave;   - 
But  the  Christians  woke  that  night. 

They  reared  the    Cid   on   his  barded 

steed, 
Like  a  warrior  mailed  for  the  hour  of 

need, 
And  they  fixed  the  sword  in  the  cold 

right  hand,  ' 
Which   had   fought   so    well    for    his 

fathers'  land. 
And  the  shield  from  his  neck  hung 

bright. 

There  was  arming  heard  on  Valen- 
cia's halls,  « 

There  was  vigil  kept  on  the  rampart 
walls ; 

Stars  had  not  faded  nor  clouds  turned 
red,  [dead, 

When  the  knight  had  girded  the  noble 
And  the  burial  train  moved  out. 

With  a  measured  pace,  as  the  pace  of 

one, 
Wras  the  still  death-march  of  the  host 

begun ; 
With  a  silent  step  went  the  cuirassed 

bands', 
Like   a   lion's   tread   on    the   burning 

sands ; 
And  they  gave  no  battle-shout. 

When  the  first  went  forth,  it  was  mid- 
night deep, 

In  heaven  was  the  moon,  in  the  camp 
was  sleep  ; 


SOAK7S  Of  THE  CID. 


255 


When  the  last  through  the  city's  gates 

had  gone, 
O'sr  tent  and  rampart  the  bright  day 

shone, 
With  a  sun-burst  from  the  sea. 

There  \\trc  knights  five  hundred  went 
armud  before, 

And  Bcrmudez  the  Cid's  green  stand- 
ard bore ; 

To  its  last  fair  field,  .with  the  break  of 
morn, 

Was  the  glorious  banner    in  silence 

borne. 
On  the  glad  wind  streaming  free. 

And  the  Campeador  came  stately  then, 
l,ike  a  leader   circled  with  steel-clad 

men 
The  helmet  was  down  o'er  the  face  of 

the  dead, 
But  his  steed  went  proud,  by  a  warrior 

led, 
For   he    knew     that   the   Cid    was 

there. 

He  was  there,  the  Cid,  with  his  own 

good  sword, 
And    Ximena    following     her    noble 

lord; 
Her   eye    was   solemn,  her   step   was 

slow, 
But  there  rose  not  a  sound  of  war  or 

woe, 
Not  a  whisper  on  the  air. 

The  halls   in  Valencia  were  still  and 

lone, 
The  churches  were  empty,  the  masses 

done  : 
There  was  not  a  voice  through  the  wide 

streets  far, 

Nor  a  foot-fall  .heard  in  the  Alcazar, 
— So  the  burial  train  moved  out. 

With  a  measured  pace,  as  the  pace  of 

one, 
Was  the  still  death-march  of  the  host 

begun ; 
With  a  silent  step  went  the  cuirassed 

bands, 
Like  a  lion's   tread  on  the  burning 

sands : 
— And  they  gave  no  battle-shout. 


But  the  deep  hills  pealed  with  a  cry 

ere  long, 
When   the   Christians    burst   on    the 

Paynim  throng ! 
— With  a  sudden  flash  of  lance  and 

spear, 
And  a  charge  of  the  war-steed  in  full 

career, 
It  was  Alvar  Fanez  came  ! 

He   that  was  wrapt   with   no   funeral 

shroud, 
Had  passed  before  like  a  threatening 

cloud ! 
And  the  storm  rushed  down  on   the 

tented  plain, 
And  the  Archer-Queen,  with  her  bands, 

lay  slain  ; 
For  the  Cid  upheld  his  fame. 

Then  a  terror  fell  on  the  King  linear, 
And  the  Libyan  kings  who  had  joined 

his  war ; 
And  their  hearts  grew.heavy,  and  died 

away, 
And  their  hands  could  not  wield  an 

assagay, 
For  the  dreadful  things  they  saw  ! 

For  it  seemed  where  Minaya  his  onset 
made, 

There  were  seventy  thousand  knights 
arrayed, 

All  white  as  snow  on  Nevada's  steep  ; 

And  they  came  like  the  foam  of  a  roar- 
ing deep ; 
— 'Twas  a  sight  of  fear  and  awe  ! 

And  the  crested  form  of  a  warrior  tall, 
With  a  sword  of  fire  went  before  them 

all; 
With   a   sword  of  fire,  and  a  bannct 

pale, 
And  a  blood-red  cross  on  his  shadowy 

mail  ; 
He  rode  in  the  battle's  van ! 

There  was  fear  in  the  path  of  his  dim 

white  horse, 
There  was  death  in  the  giant-warrior's 

course  I 


256 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERTS. 


Where  his  banner  streamed  with  its 

ghostly  light, 
Where  his  sword  blazed  out,  there  was 

hurrying  flight — 
For  it  seemed    not  the    sword   of 

man ! 

The  field  and  the  river  grew  darkly 

red, 

As  the  king  and  leaders  of  Afric  fled  ; 
There  was  work  for  the  men  of  the 

Cid  that  day ! 
— They  were  weary  at  eve,  when  they 

ceased  to  slay, 
As  reapers  whose  task  is  done  ! 

The  kings  and  the  leaders  of  Afric  fled  ! 
The  sails  of  their  galleys  in  haste  were 

spread ; 
But  the  sea  had  its  share  of  the  Paynim 

slain, 
And  the  bow  of  the  desert  was  broke 

in  Spain 
— So  the  Cid  to  his  grave  passed 

on  I 


THE  CID'S  RISING. 

TWAS  the  deep  mid-watch  of  the  silent 

night, 

And  Leon  in  slumber  lay, 
When  a  sound  went  forth  in  rushing 

might, 

Like  an  army  on  its  wayl 
In  the  stillness  of  the  hour, 
When  the  dreams  of  sleep  have 

power, 
And  men  forget  the  day. 

Through  the  dark  and  lonely  streets  it 

went, 
Till     the    slumberers    woke    in 

dread ; 
The  sound  of  a  passing  armament, 

With  the  charger's  stony  tread. 
There  was  heard  no  trumpet's  peal, 
Hut  the  heavy  tramp  of  steel, 
As  a  host's  to  combat  led. 

Through  the  dark  and  lonely  streets  it 

passed, 
And  the  hollow  pavement  rang, 


And  the  towers   as  with  a  sweeping 

blast, 

Rocked  to  the  stormy  clang ! 
But  the  march  of  the  viewless  train 
Went  on  to  royal  fane, 

Where   a  priest    his    night-hymn 
sang. 

There  was   knocking   that  shook  the 

marble  floor, 
And  a  voice   at  the  gate,  which 

said — 
"  That  the  Cid  Ruy  Diez,  the  Camp- 

eador, 

Was  there  in  his  arms  arrayed ; 
And  that  with  him  from  the  tomb, 
Had  the  Count  Gonzalez  come 
With  a  host,  uprisen  to  aid  ! 

And  they  came  from  the  buried  king 

that  lay 

At  rest  in  that  ancient  fane ; 
For  he  must  be  armed  on  the  battle- 
day 

With  them  to  deliver  Spain  !  " 
. — Then  the  march  went  sounding  on 
And  the  Moors  by  noontide  sun 
Were  dust  on  Tolosa's  plain. 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE 
DESERTS. 

CALL  it  not  loneliness,  to  dwell 
In  woodland  shade  or  hermit  dell, 
Or  the  deep  forest  to  explore, 
Or  wander  Alpine  regions  o'er  ; 
For  Nature  there  all  joyous  reigns, 
And  fills  with  life  her  wild  domains: 
A  bird's  light  wing  may  break  the  air, 
A  wave,  a  leaf,  may  murmur  there: 
A  bee  the  mountain  flowers  may  seek. 
A  chamois  bound  from  peak  to  peak ; 
An  eagle  rushing  to  the  sky, 
Wake  the  deep  echoes  with  his  cry; 
And   still   some   sound,   thy   heart   to 

cheer, 
Some   voice,   though   not   of  man,  is 

near, 

But  he,  whose  weary  step  hath  traced 
Mysterious  Afric's  awful  waste— 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERTS. 


2  57 


Whose  eye  Arabia's  wilds  hath  viewed, 
Can  tell  thee  what  is  solitude  ! 
It  is,  to  traverse  lifeless  plains, 
Where  everlasting  stillness  reigns, 
And  billowy  sands  and  dazzling  sky, 
Seem  boundless  as  infinity  ! 
It  is,  to  sink,  with  speechless  dread, 
In  scenes  unmeet  for  mortal  tread, 
Severed  from  earthly  being's  trace, 
Alone,  amidst  eternal  space  ! 
'Tis  noon — and  fearfully  profound, 
Silence  is  on  the  desert  round  ; 
Alone  she  reigns,  above,  beneath, 
With  all  the  attributes  of  death  ! 
No  bird  the  blazing  heaven's  may  dare, 
No  insect  bide  the  scorching  air  ; 
The  ostrich,  though  of  sun-born  race, 
Seeks  a  more  sheltered  dwelling-place ; 
The  lion  slumbers  in  his  lair, 
The  serpent  shuns  the  noontide  glare  ; 
But  slowly  wind  the  patient  train 
Of  camels  o'er  the  blasted  plain, 
Where  they  and  man  may  brave  alone 
The  terrors  of  the  burning  zone. 

Faint   not,  O  pilgrims  I    though  on 

high, 

As  a  volcano,  flame  the  sky ; 
Shrink  not,  though  as  a  furnace  glow 
The  dark-red  seas  cf  sand  below ; 
Though  not  a  shadow  save  your  own, 
Across  the  dread  expanse  is  thrown ; 
Mark!  where  your  feverish  lips  to  lave, 
Wide   spreads    the    fresh  transparent 

wave ! 

Urge  your  tired  camels  on,  and  take 
Your  rest  beside  yon  glistening  lake  ; 
Thence,  haply,  cooler  gales  may  spring, 
And  fan  your  brows  with  lighter  wing. 
Lo  !  nearer  now,  its  glassy  tide 
Reflects  the  date-tree  on  its  side — 
Spetd  on,  pure  draughts  and  genial  air, 
And  verdant  shade,  await  you  there. 
Oh   glimpse   of   heaven !    to    him  un- 
known, 

That  hath  not  trod  the  burning  zone  ! 
Forward    they   press — they   gaze    dis- 
mayed— 


The  waters  of  the  desert  fade  I 
Melting  to  vapors  that  elude 
The  eye,  the  lip,  they  vainly  wooed.1 
What  meteor  comes  ? — a  purple  haze 
Hath  half  obscured  the  noontide  rays : J 
Onward  it  moves  in  swift  career, 
A  blush  upon  the  atmosphere ; 
Haste,    haste!    avert    the    impending 

doom, 

Fall  prostrate  !  'tis  the  dread  Simoom ! 
Bow  down  your  faces — till  the  blast 
On  its  red  wing  of  flame  hath  passed, 
Far  bearing  o'er  the  sandy  wave 
The  viewless  Angel  of  the  Grave. 

It  came — 'tis  vanished — but  hath  left 
The  wanderers  e'en  of  hope  bereft  ; 
The  ardent  heart,  the  vigorous  frame, 
Pride,    courage,    strength,    its    power 

could  tame. 

Faint  with  despondence,  worn  with  toil, 
They  sink  upon  the  burning  soil, 
Resigned  amidst  those  realms  of  gloom, 
To  find  their  deathbed  and  their  tomb.3 

But  onward  still  !  yon  distant  spot 
Of  verdure  can  deceive  you  not; 
Yon  palms,  which  tremulously  seemed 
Reflected  as  the  waters  gleamed, 
Along  the  horizon's  verge  displayed, 
Still  rear  their  slender  colonnade — 
A  landmark,  guiding  o'er  the  plain 
The  Caravan's  exhausted  train. 
Fair  is  that  little  Isle  of  Bliss, 
The  desert's  emerald  oasis  ! 
A  rainbow  on  the  torrent's  wave, 
A  gem  embosomed  in  the  grave, 
A  sunbeam  on  a  stormy  day 
Its  beauty's  image  might  convey  1 
Beauty,  in  horror's  lap  that  sleeps, 
While  silence  round  her  vigil  keeps. 
— Rest,  weary  pilgrims  !  calmly  laid 
To  slumber  in  the  acacia  shade : 
Rest,  where   the   shrubs  your   camels 

bruise, 

Their  automatic  breath  diffuse  ; 
Where  softer  light  the  sunbeams  pour 
Through  the  tall  palm  and  sycamore  , 


1  The  mirage,  or  vapor  assuming  the  appearance  of  water. 
1  See  the  description  of  the  Simoom  in  Bruce's  Travels. 

3  The  extreme  languor  anil  despondence  produced  by  the  Simoom,  even  wheu  its  effects  aro 
not  fatal,  have  been  described  by  many  travellers. 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DffSERTS. 


And  the  rich  date  luxuriant  spreads 
Its  pendant  clusters  o'er  your  heads. 
Nature  once  more,  to  seal  your  eyes, 
Murmurs  her  sweetest  lullabies  ; 
Again  each  heart  the  music  hails 
Of  rustling  leaves  and  sighing  gales, 
And  oh  !  to  Afric's  child  how  dear 
The  voice  of  fountains  gushing  near ! 
Sweet  be  your  slumbers !    and    your 

dreams 
Of  waving  groves  and  rippling  streams! 

Far  be  the  serpent's  venomed  coil 
From  the  brief  respite  won  by  toil ; 
Far  be  the  awful  shades  of  those 
Who  deep  beneath  the  sands  repose — 
The  hosts,  to  whom  the  desert's  breath 
Bore  swift  and  stern  the  call  of  death. 
Sleep  !  nor  may  scorching  blast  invade, 
The  freshness  of  the  acacia  shade, 
But  gales  of  heaven  your  spirits  bless, 
With  life's  best  balm — Forgetfulness  ! 
Till  night  from  many  an  urn  diffuse 
The  treasures  of  her  world  of  dews. 

The  day  hath  closed — the  moon  on 

high 

Walks  in  her  cloudless  majesty. 
A  thousand  stars  to  Afric's  heaven 
Serene  magnificence  have  given ; 
Pure  beacons  of  the  sky,  whose  flame 
Shines  forth  eternally  the  same. 
Blest  be  their  beams,  whose  holy  light 
Shall  guide  the  camel's  footsteps  right, 
And  lead,  as  with  a  track  divine, 
The  pilgrim  to  his  prophet's  shrine  I   ^ 
— Rise  1  bid  your  Isle  of  Palms  adieu  ! 
Again  your  lonely  march  pursue, 
While  airs  of  night  are  freshly  blowing, 
And  heavens  with  softer  beauty  glow- 
ing. 

—'Tis  silence  all :  the  solemn  scene 
\\Yars,  at  c;i  :h  step,  a  ruder  mien  ; 
For  giant  rucks,  at  distance  piled, 
Cast  their  deep  shadows  o'er  the  wild. 
Darkly  they  rise — what  eye  hath  viewed 
The  caverns  of  their  solitude? 
Away!  within  those  awful  cells 
The  savage  lord  of  Afnc  dwells  ! 
Heard  ye  his  voice  ? — the  lion's  roar 
Swells  as  when  billow.-,  break  on  shore. 


Well  may  the  c.-vnel  shake  with  fear, 
And  the  steed  pant — his  foe  is  near ; 
Haste  !  light  the  torch,  bid  watchfirei 

throw, 

Far  o'er  the  waste,  a  ruddy  glow ; 
Keep  vigil — guard  the  bright  array, 
Of  flames  that  scare  him  from  his  prey  • 
Within  their  magic  circle  press, 
O  wanderers  of  the  wilderness ! 
Heap  high  the  pile,  and  by  its  blaze 
Tell  the  wild  tales  of  elder  days. 
Arabia's  wondrous  lore — that  dwell? 
On  warrior  deeds,  and  wizard  spells: 
Enchanted    domes,    'mid    scenes    like 

these, 

Rising  to  vanish  with  the  breeze  ; 
Gardens,  whose  fruits  are  gems,  that 

shed 

Their  light  where  mortal  may  not  tread, 
And  spirits,  o'er  whose  pearly  halls 
The  eternal  billow  heaves  and  falls. 
— With  charms  like   these,  of  mystic 

power, 

Watchers  !  beguile  the  midnight  hour. 
— Slowly  that  hour  hath  rolled  away, 
And  star  by  star  withdraws  its  ray. 
Dark  children  of  the  sun  !  again 
Your  own  rich  orient  hails  his  reign. 
He  comes,  but  veiled — with  sanguine 

glare 

Tinging  the  mists  that  load  the  air; 
Sounds  of  dismay,  and  signs  of  flame, 
The  approaching  hurricane  proclaim. 
'Tis   death's    red    banner   streams   o» 

high- 
Fly  to  the  rocks  for  shelter  !— fly  ! 
Lo!  darkening  o'er  the  fiery  skies, 
The  pillars  of  the  desert  rise! 
On,  in  terrific  grandeur  wheeling, 
A  giant  host,  the  heavens  concealing, 
They  move,  like  mighty  genii  forms, 
Tosvering  immense  'midst  clouds  aiul 

storms. 

Who  shall  escape  ? — with  awful  force 
The   whirlwind   bears    them   on   theii 

course ; 

They  join,  they  rush  resistless  on, 
The  landmarks  of  the  plain  are  gone  ; 
The  steps,  the  forms,  from  earth  ef 

faced, 
Of  those  who  trod  the  burning  waste ! 


MARIUS  AMONGST  THE  RUINS  OF  CARTHAGE.         259 


All  whelmed,  all  hushed: — none  left  to 

bear 

Sad  record  how  they  perished  there  1 
No  stone  their  tale  of  death  shall  tell — 
The  desert  guards  its  mysteries  well ; 


And  o'er  the  unfathomed  sandy  deep, 
Where  low  their  nameless  relics  sleep, 
Oft  shall  the  future  pilgrim  tread, 
Nor  know  his  steps  are  on  the  dead. 


MARIUS  AMONGST  THE  RUINS  OF  CAR- 
THAGE. 


["  Marius,  during  the  time  of  his  exile,  seeking  refuge  in  Africa,  had  landed  at  Carthago,  when 
an  officer,  sent  by  the  Roman  governor  of  Africa,  came  and  thus  addressed  him :  '  Marius, 
1  come  from  the  Prztor  Sextilius,  to  tell  you  that  he  forbids  you  to  set  foot  in  Africa.  If 
you  obey  not,  he  will  support  the  Senate's  decree,  and  treat  you  as  a  public  enemy.'  Marius, 
upon  hearing  this,  was  struck  dumb  with  grief  and  indignation.  He  uttered  not  a  word  for 
some  time,  but  regarded  the  officer  with  a  menacing  aspect.  At  length  the  officer  inquired 
what  answer  he  should  carry  to  the  governor.  '  Go  and  tell  him,*  said  the  unfortunate  man, 
with  a  sigh,  '  that  thou  hast  seen  the  exiled  Marius  sitting  on  the  ruins  of  Carthage."'— 
See  PLUTARCH.] 

'TWAS  noon,  and  Afric's  dazzling  sun  on  high, 
With  fierce  resplendence  filled  the  unclouded  sky; 
No  zephyr  waved  the  palm's  majestic  head, 
And  smooth  alike  the  seas  and  deserts  spread; 
While  desolate,  beneath  a  blaze  of  light, 
Silent  and  lonely  as  at  dead  of  night, 
The  wreck  of  Carthage  lay.     Her  prostrate  fanes 
Had  strewed  their  precious  marble  o'er  the  plains; 
Dark  weeds  and  grass  the  column  had  o'ergrown, 
The  lizard  basked  upon  the  altar-stone ; 
Whelmed  by  the  ruins  of  their  own  abodes, 
Had  sunk  the  forms  of  heroes  and  of  gods  ; 
While  near,  dread  offspring  of  the  burning  day  I 
Coiled  'midst  forsaken  halls,  the  serpent  lay. 

There  came  an  exile,  long  by  fate  pursued, 
To  shelter  in  that  awful  solitude. 
Well  did  that  wanderer's  high  yet  faded  mien 
Suit  the  sad  grandeur  of  the  desert-scene  ; 
Shadowed,  not  veiled,  by  locks  of  wintry  snow, 
Pride  sat,  still  mighty,  on  his  furrowed  birnv  ; 
Time  had  not  quenched  the  terrors  of  his  eye, 
Nor  tamed  his  glance  of  fierce  ascendancy  ; 
\Vhile  the  deep  meaning  of  his  features  told 
Ages  of  thought  had  o'er  his  spirit  rolled, 
Nor  dimmed  the  fire  that  might  not  be  controlled 
And  still  did  power  invest  his  stately  form, 
Shattered,  but  yet  unconquered,  by  the  storm. 


*6o        MARIUS  AMONGST  THE  RUINS  OF  CARTHAGE. 

But  slow  his  step — and  where,  not  yet  o'erthrown, 
Still  towered  a  pillar  'midst  the  waste  alone, 
Faint  with  long  toil,  his  weary  limbs  he  laid, 
To  slumber  in  its  solitary  shade. 
He  slept — and  darkly,  on  his  brief  repose, 
The  indignant  genius  of  the  scene  arose. 
Clouds  robed  his  dim  unearthly  form,  and  spread 
Mysterious  gloom  around  his  crownless  head — 
Crownless,  but  regal  still.     With  stern  disdain 
The  kingly  shadow  seemed  to  lift  his  chain, 
Gazed  on  the  palm,  his  ancient  sceptre  torn, 
And  his  eye  kindled  with  immortal  scorn ! 

"And  sleepst  thou,  Roman  ?"  cried  his  voice  austere; 
"  Shall  son  of  Latium  find  a  refuge  here  ? 
Awake !  arise  !  to  speed  the  hour  of  Fate, 
When  Rome  shall  fall,  as  Carthage  desolate  1 
Go  !  with  her  children's  flower,  the  free,  the  brave, 
People  the  silent  chambers  of  the  grave ; 
So  shall  the  course  of  ages  yet  to  be, 
More  swiftly  waft  the  day,  avenging  me  I 

"  Yes,  from  the  awful  gulf  of  years  to  come, 
I  hear  a  voice  that  prophesies  her  doom ; 
I  see  the  trophies  of  her  pride  decay, 
And  her  long  line  of  triumphs  pass  away, 
Lost  in  the  depths  of  time— while  sinks  the  star 
That  led  her  march  of  heroes  from  afar  ! 
Lo !  from  the  frozen  forests  of  the  North, 
The  sons  of  slaughter  pour  in  myriads  forth  ! 
Who  shall  awake  the  mighty  ? — will  thy  woe, 
City  of  thrones  !  disturb  the  realms  below? 
Call  on  the  dead  to  hear  thee !  let  thy  cries 
Summon  their  shadowy  legions  to  arise, 
Array  the  ghosts  of  conquerors  on  thy  walls ! 
— Barbarians  revel  in  their  ancient  halls, 
And  their  lost  children  bend  the  subject  knee, 
'Midst  the  proud  tombs  and  trophies  of  the  free. 
Bird  of  the  sun  !  dread  eagle  !  borne  on  high, 
A  creature  of  the  empyreal — thou,  whose  eye 
Was  lightning  to  the  earth — whose  pinion  waved 
In  haughty  triumph  o'er  a  world  enslaved; 
Sink  from  thy  heavens  !  for  glory's  noon  is  o'er, 
And  rushing  storms  shall  bear  thee  on  no  more  ! 
Closed  is  thy  regal  course — thy  crest  is  torn, 
And  thy  plume  vanished  from  the  realms  of  morn. 
The  shaft  hath  reached  thee  ! — rest  with  chiefs  and  kings, 
Who  conquered  in  the  shadow  of  thy  wings ; 
Sleep  !  while  thy  foes  exult  around  their  prey, 
And  share  thy  glorious  heritage  of  day ! 
But  darker  years  shall  mingle  with  the  past, 
And  deeper  vengeance  shall  be  mine  at  last. 


SOJVG. 


26t 


O'er  the  seven  hills  I  see  destruction  spread, 
And  Empire's  widow  veils  with  dust  her  head! 
Her  gods  forsake  each  desolated  shrine, 
Her  temples  moulder  to  the  earth,  like  mine' 
'Midst  fallen  palaces  she  sits  alone, 
Calling  heroic  shades  from  ages  gone, 
Or  bids  the  nations  'midst  her  deserts  wait 
To  learn  the  fearful  oracles  of  Fate ! 

"  Still  sleepst  thou,  Roman  ?    Son  of  Victory,  risel 
Wake  to  obey  the  avenging  Destinies  ! 
Shed  by  thy  mandate,  soon  thy  country's  blood 
Shall  swell  and  darken  1  iber's  yellow  flood  ! 
My  children's  manes  call — awake!  prepare 
The  feast  they  claim  ! — exult  ;n  Rome's  despair  I 
Be  thine  ear  closed  against  her  suppliant  cries, 
Bid  thy  soul  triumph  in  her  agonies ; 
Let  carnage  revel,  e'en  her  shrines  among, 
Spare  not  the  valiant,  pity  not  the  young ! 
Haste  !  o'er  her  hills  the  sword's  libation  shed, 
And  wreak  the  curse  of  Carthage  on  her  head  1  ** 

The  vision  flies — a  mortal  step  is  near, 
Whose  echoes  vibrate  on  the  slumberer's  ear; 
He  starts,  he  wakes  to  woe — before  him  stands 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  harsh  commands, 
Whose  faltering  accents  tell  the  exiled  chief, 
To  seek  on  other  shores  a  home  for  grief. 
— Silent  the  wanderer  sat — but  on  his  cheek 
The  burning  glow  far  more  than  words  might  speak ; 
And,  from  the  kindling  of  his  eye,  there  broke 
Language,  where  all  the  indignant  soul  awoke. 
Till  his  deep  thought  found  voice — then,  calmly  stern. 
And  sovereign  in  despair,  he  cried,  "  Return  ! 
Tell  him  who  sent  thee  hither,  thou  hast  seen 
Marius,  the  exile,  rest  where  Cnrthage  once  hath  been!  " 


SONG. 

FOUNDED  ON   AN   ARABIAN  ANECDOTE. 


AWAY  !  though  still  thy  sword  is  red 
With  life-blood  from  my  sire, 

No  drop  of  thine  may  now  be  shed 
To  quench  my  bosom's  fire  ; 

Though  on  my  heart  'twould  fall  more 

blest 
Than  dews  upon  the  desert's  breast. 


I've  sought  thee  'midst  the   srms  ol 

men, 

Through  the  wide  city's  fanes  ; 
I've  sought  thee  by  the  lion's  den, 
O'er  pathless,  boundless  plains  ; 
No    step   that    marked    the    burning 

waste, 
But  mine  its  lonely  course  hath  traced. 


262 


THE  CROSS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


Thy  name  hath  been  a  baleful  spell 
O'er  my  dark  spirit  cast ;  [tell, 

No  thought  may  dream,  no  words  may 
What  there  unseen  hath  passed  : 

This  withered  cheek,  this  faded  eye, 

Are  seals  of  thee — behold  !   and  fly  ! 

I  lath  not  my  cup  for  thee  been  poured, 
Beneath  the  palm-tree's  shade  ? 

Hath  not  soft  sleep  thy  frame  restored, 
Within  my  dwelling  laid  ? 

What  though  unknown — yet  who  shall 
rest 

Secure — if  not  the  Arab's  guest  ? 

Haste  thee !  and  leave  my  threshold- 
floor 

Inviolate  and  pure  ! 
Let  not  thy  presence  tempt  me  more, — 

Man  may  not  thus  endure  ! 
Away !  I  bear  a  fettered  arm,      [harm  ! 
A   heart  that  burns  —  but    must    not 


Begone  !  outstrip  the  swift  gazelle  ! 

The  wind  in  speed  subdue ! 
Fear  cannot  fly  so  swift,  so  well, 

As  vengeance  shall  pursue; 
And  hate,  like  love,  in  parting  pain. 
Smiles  o'er  one  hope — we  meet  agaii 

To-morrow — and  the  avenger's  hand, 
The  warrior's  dart  is  free  ! 

E'en  now,  no  spot  in  all  thy  land, 
Save  this,  had  sheltered  thee  : 

Let  blood  the  monarch's  hall  profane, 

The  Arab's  tent  must  bear  no  stain  1 

Fly !  may  the  desert's  fiery  blast 

Avoid  thy  secret  way! 
And  sternly,  till  thy  steps  be  past, 

Its  whirlwinds  sleep  to-day! 
I  would  not  that  thy  doom  should  be 
Assigned  by  Heaven  to  aught  but  m 


THE  CROSS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

autiful  constellation  of  the  Cross  is  seen  only  in  the  southern  hemisphere.    The  follow 
ing  lines  are  supposed  to  be  addressed  to  it  by  a  Spanish  traveller  in  South  America.] 

IN  the  silence  and  grandeur  of  midnight  I  tread, 
Where  savannahs,  in  boundless  magnificence,  spread, 
And  bearing  sublimely  their  snow-wreaths  on  high, 
The  far  Cordilleras  unite  with  the  sky. 

The  fir-tree  waves  o'er  me,  the  fire-flies'  red  light 
With  its  quick-glancing  splendor  illumines  the  night; 
And  I  read  in  each  tint  of  the  skies  and  the  earth 
How  distant  my  steps  from  the  land  of  my  birth. 

But  to  thee,  as  thy  lode-stars  resplendently  burn 
In  their  clear  depths  of  blue,  with  devotion  I  turn. 
Bright  Cross  of  the  South  !  and  beholding  thee  shine, 
Scarce  regret  the  loved  land  of  the  olive  and  vine. 

Thou  recallest  the  ages  when  first  o'er  the  main 
My  fathers  unfolded  the  ensign  of  Spain, 
And  planted  their  faith  in  the  regions  that  see 
Its  unperishing  symbol  emblazoned  in  thee. 

How  oft  in  their  course  o'er  the  ocean  unknown, 
Where  all  was  mysterious,  and  awful,  and  lone, 
Hath  their  spirit  been  cheered  by  thy  light,  when  the  de«p 
Reflected  its  brilliance  in  tremulous  sleep! 


TO  MISS  F.  A.  L. 


203 


As  the  vision  that  rose  to  the  lord  of  the  world,1 
When  first  his  bright  banner  of  faith  was  unfurled  ; 
Even  such,  to  the  heroes  of  Spain,  when  their  prow 
Made  the  billows  the  path  of  iheir  glory,  wert  thou. 

And  to  me,  as  I  traversed  the  world  of  the  west, 
Through  deserts  of  beauty  in  stillness  that  rest ; 
By  forests  and  rivers  untamed  in  their  pride, 
Thy  hues  have  a  language,  thy  course  is  a  guide. 

Shine  on — my  own  land  is  a  far  distant  spot, 
And  the  stars  of  thy  sphere  can  enlighten  it  not; 
And  the  eyes  that  I  love,  though  e'en  now  they  may  be 
O'er  the  firmament  wandering,  can  gaze  not  on  thee ! 

But  thou  to  my  thoughts  are  a  pure-blazing  shrine, 
A  fount  of  bright  hopes,  and  of  visions  divine ; 
And  my  soul,  as  an  eagle  exulting  and  free, 
Soars  high  o'er  the  Andes  to  mingle  with  thee. 


THE  SLEEPER  OF  MARATHON. 

I  LAY  upon  the  solemn  plain, 
And  by  the  funeral  mound, 

Where   those  who   died   not  there  in 

vain, 
Their  place  of  sleep  had  found. 

Twas    silent    where    the    free    blood 
gushed, 

When  Persia  came  ar raved — 
So  many  a  voice  had  there  been  hushed, 

So  many  a  footstep  stayed. 

I  slumbered  on  the  lonely  spot 

So  sanctified  by  death  : 
I  slumbered — but  my  rest  was  not 

As  theirs  who  lay  beneath. 

For  on  my  dreams,  that  shadowy  hour, 
They  rose — the  chainless  dead, — 

All  armed  they  sprang,  in  joy,  in  power, 
Up  from  their  grassy  bed. 

I  saw  their  spears,  on  that  red  field, 
Flash  as  in  time  gone  by — 

Chased  to  the  seas  without  his  shield, 
I  saw  the  Persian  fly. 


I  woke — the  sudden  trumpet's  blast 
Called  to  another  fight — 

From  visions  of  our  glorious  past, 
Who  doth  not  wake  in  night 


TO   MISS    F.    A.    L. 
ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

WHAT  wish  can  friendship  form  for 
thee, 

What  brighter  star  invoke  to  shine  ? 
Thy  path  from  every  thorn  is  free, 

And  every  rose  is  thine ! 

Life  hath  no  purer  joy  in  store, 

Time  hath  no  sorrow  to  efface  ; 
Hope  cannot  paint  one  blessing  more 

Than  memory  can  retrace ! 
Some  hearts  a  boding  fear  might  own, 

Had  Fate  to  them  thy  portion  given, 
Since  many  an  eye  by  tears  alone 

Is  taught  to  gaze  on  Heaven  ! 

And  there  are  virtues  oft  concealed, 
Till  roused  by  anguish  from  repose, 

As  odorous  trees  no  balm  will  yield 
Till  from  their  wounds  it  flows. 


1  Constintinc. 


264 


TO  THE  SAME. 


But  fear  not  than  the  lesson  fraught 
With  Sorrow's  chastening  power  to 

know  ; 
Thou    needest    not    thus    be    sternly 

taught, 
"  To  melt  at  others'  woe." 

Then  still,  with  heart  as  blest,  as  warm, 
Rejoice  thou  in  thy  lot  on  earth  : 

Ah !    why    should    virtue    dread    the 

storm, 
If  sunbeams  prove  her  worth  ? 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  FIRST  LEAF 
OF  THE  ALBUM  OF  THE 
SAME. 

WHAT  first  should  consecrate  as  thine, 
The  volume,  destined  to  be  fraught 


With  many  a  sweet  and  playful  line, 
With  many  a  pure  and  pious  thought? 

It  should  be,  what  a  loftier  strain 
Perchance  less  meetly  would  impart ; 

What  never  yet  was  poured  in  vain,— - 
The  blessing  of  the  grateful  heart— 

For  kindness,  which  hath  soothed  the 
hour 

Of  anxious  grief,  of  weary  pain, 
And  oft,  with  its  beguiling  power, 

Taught  languid  Hope  to  smile  again 

Long  shall  that  fervent  blessing  rest 
On  thee  and  thine,  and  heavenwards 

borne, 
Call  down  such  peace   to   soothe  thy 

breast, 
As   thou   wouldst   bear   to   all   that 


TO  THE  SAME. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  MOTHER. 

SAY  not  'tis  fruitless,  nature's  holy  tear, 
Shed  by  affection  o'er  a  parent's  bier  ! 
By  earthly  sorrow  strengthened  for  the  skies, 
Till  the  sad  heart,  whose  pangs  exalt  its  love, 
With  its  lost  treasure,  seeks  a  home — above. 

But  grief  will  claim  her  hour, — and  He,  whose  eye 

Looks  pitying  down  on  nature's  agony, 

He,  in  whose  love  the  righteous  calmly  sleep, 

Who  bids  us  hope,  forbids  us  not  to  weep  ! 

He,  too,  hath  wept — and  sacred  be  the  woes 

Once  borne  by  Him,  their  inmost  source  who  knows, 

Searches  each  wound,  and  bids  His  Spirit  bring 

Celestial  healing  on  its  dove-like  wing  ! 

And  who  but  He  shall  soothe,  when  one  dread  stroke, 

Ties,  that  were  fibres  of  the  soul,  hath  broke  ? 

Oh!  well  may  those,  yet  lingering  here,  deplore 

The  vanished  light,  that  cheers  their  path  no  more ! 

The  Almighty  hand,  which  many  a  blessing  dealt, 

Sends  its  keen  arrows  not  to  be  unfelt! 

By  fire  and  storm  Heaven  tries  the  Christian's  worth, 

And  joy  departs,  to  wean  us  from  the  earth, 

Where  still  too  long,  with  beings  born  to  die, 

Time  hath  dominion  o'er  Eternity. 


A  DIRGE.  265 

Yet  not  the  less,  o'er  all  the  heart  hath  lost, 

Shall  Faith  rejoice  when  Nature  grieves  the  most  ; 

Then  comes  her  triumph !  through  the  shadowy  gloom, 

Her  star  in  glory  rises  from  the  tomb, 

Mounts  to  the  day-spring,  leaves  the  cloud  below, 

And  gilds  the  tears  that  cease  not  yet  to  flow ! 

Yes,  all  is  o'er !  fear,  doubt,  suspense  are  fled, 

Let  brighter  thoughts  be  with  the  virtuous  dead! 

The  final  ordeal  of  the  soul  is  past, 

And  the  pale  brow  is  sealed  to  Heaven  at  last  I* 

And  thou,  loved  spirit !  for  the  skies  mature, 
Steadfast  in  faith,  in  meek  devotion  pure; 
Thou  that  didst  make  the  home  thy  presence  blest, 
Bright  with  the  sunshine  of  thy  gentle  breast, 
Where  peace  a  holy  dwelling-place  had  found, 
Whence  beamed  her  smile  benignantly  around; 
Thou,  that  to  bosoms  widowed  and  bereft 
Dear,  precious  records  of  thy  worth  hast  left, 
The  treasured  gem  of  sorrowing  hearts  to  l>e, 
Till  Heaven  recall  surviving  love  to  thee! 

O  cherished  and  revered !  fond  memory  well 
On  thee,  with  sacred,  sad  delight,  may  dwell  1 
So  pure,  so  blest  thy  life,  that  death  alone 
Could  make  more  perfect  happiness  thine  own ; 
More  blest  than  dew  on  Hermon's  brow  that  falls, 
Each  drop  to  life  some  latent  virtue  calls  ; 
Awakes  some  purer  hope,  ordained  to  rise, 
He  came — thy  cup  of  joy,  serenely  bright, 
Full  to  the  last,  still  flowed  in  cloudless  light; 
He  came — an  angel,  bearing  from  on  high 
The  all  it  wanted — Immortality  1 


A  DIRGE. 

WEEP  for  the  early  lost! — 
How  many  flowers  were  mingled  in  the  crown 
Thus,  with  the  lovely,  to  the  grave  gone  down, 

E'en  when  life  promised  most, 
How  many  hopes  have  withered— they  that  bow 
To  Heaven's  dread  will,  fee!  all  its  mysteries  now. 

Did  the  young  mother's  eye, 
Behold  her  child,  and  close  upon  the  day, 
Ere  from  its  glance  the  awakening  spirit's  ray 

In  sunshine  could  reply  ? — 
Then  look  for  clouds  to  dim  the  fairest  morn  I 
Oh!  strong  is  faith,  if  woe  like  this  be  borne. 

"  Till  we  have  sealed  the  servants  of  --Mr  God  in  their  foreheads."— Rev.  ni.  3. 


«66  •      THE  MAREMMA. 


For  there  is  hushed  on  earth 
A  voice  of  gladness — there  is  veiled  a  face, 
Whose  parting  leaves  a  dark  and  silent  place, 

By  the  once-joyous  hearth. 

A  smile  hath  passed,  which  filled  its  home  with  light, 
A  soul,  whose  beauty  made  that  smile  so  bright ! 

But  there  is  power  with  faith  ! 
Power,  e'en  though  nature  o'er  the  untimely  grave 
Must  weep,  when  God  resumes  the  gem  He  gave  ; 

For  sorrow  comes  of  Death, 
And  with  a  yearning  heart  we  linger  on, 
When  they,  whose  glance  unlocked  its  founts,  are  gone  ! 

But  glory  from  the  dust, 
And  praise  to  Him,  the  merciful,  for  those 
On  whose  bright  memory  love  may  still  repose, 

With  an  immortal  trust! 

Praise  for  the  dead,  who  leave  us,  when  they  part, 
Such  hope  as  she  hath  left — "  the  pure  in  heart." 


THE  MAREMMA. 

*'  NBLLO  DELLA  PIETRA  had  espoused  a  lady  of  noble  family  at  Sienna,  named  Madonna  Pi*. 
Her  beauty  was  the  admiration  of  Tuscany,  and  excited  in  the  heart  of  her  husband  a  jeal- 
ousy, which,  exasperated  by  false  reports  and  groundless  suspicions,  at  length  drove  him  to 
the  desperate  resolution  of  Othello.  It  is  difficult  to  decide  whether  the  l«dy  was  quite  inno- 
cent, but  so  Dante  represents  her.  Her  husband  brought  her  into  the  Maremma,  which, 
then,  as  now,  was  a  district  destructive  of  health.  He  never  told  his  unfortunate  wife  the 
reason  of  her  banishment  to  so  dangerous  a  country.  He  did  not  deign  to  utter  complaint  or 
accusation.  He  lived  with  her  alone,  in  cold  silence,  without  answering  her  questions,  or 
listening  to  her  remonstrances.  He  patiently  waited  till  the  pestilential  air  should  destroy 
the  health  of  this  young  lady.  In  a  lew  months  she  died.  Some  chronicles,  indeed,  tell  us 
that  Nello  used  the  dagger  to  hasten  her  death.  It  is  certain  that  he  survived  her,  plunged 
in  sadness  and  perpetual  silence.  Dante  had,  in  this  incident,  all  the  materials  of  an  ample 
and  very  poetical  narrative.  But  he  bestow?  on  it  only  four  verses.  He  meets  in  Purgatory 
three  spirits  ;  one  was  a  captain  who  fell  fighting  on  the  same  side  with  him  in  the  battle  of 
Campaldino  ;  the  second,  a  gentleman  assassinated  by  the  treachery  of  the  House  of  Estc ; 
the  third  was  a  woman  unknown  to  the  poet,  and  who,  after  the  others  had  spoken,  turned 
towards  him  with  these  words ; — 

'  Recorditi  di  me  ;  che  son  la  Pia, 
Sienna  mi  fe,  disfecemi  Maremma, 
Salsi  colui  che  inarellata  pria 
Disposando  m'  avea  con  la  sua  gemma.*  " 

Purgatorio, 

"  Mais  elle  etait  du  monde,  ou  les  plus  belles  choses, 

Ont  le  pire  destin  ; 

Et  Rose  elle  a  v^cu  ce  que  vivent  les  roses, 
L'espace  d'un  Matin." — MALHKRBB. 

THF.RF.  are  bright  scenes  beneath  Italian  skies, 
Where  glowing  suns  their  purest  light  diffuse, 


THE  MAR  EM  MA.  26; 


Uncultured  flowers  in  wild  profusion  rise, 
And  naturejavishes  her  warmest  hues  ; 
But  trust  thou  not  her  smile,  her  balmy  breath, 
Away !  her  charms  are  but  the  pomp  of  Death  ! 

He,  in  the  vine-clad  bowers,  unseen  is  dwelling. 
Where  the  cool  shade  its  freshness  round  thee  throws,. 
His  voice,  in  every  perfumed  zephyr  swelling: 
With  gentlest  whisper  lures  thee  to  repose  : 
And  the  soft  sounds  that  through  the  foliage  sigh, 
But  woo  thee  still  to  slumber  and  to  die. 

Mysterious  danger  lurks,  a  syren,  there, 

Not  robed  in  terrors,  or  announced  in  gloom, 

But  stealing  o'er  thee  in  the  scented  air, 

And  veiled  in  flowers,  that  smile  to  deck  thy  tomb; 

How  may  we  deem,  amidst  their  deep  array, 

That  heaven  and  earth  but  flatter  to  betray? 

Sunshine,  and  bloom,  and  verdure  1    Can  it  be, 
That  these  but  charm  us  with  destructive  wiles  ? 
Where  shall  we  turn,  O  Nature,  if  in  tfiee 
Danger  is  masked  in  beauty — death  in  smiles  ? 
Oh  I  still  the  Circe  of  that  fatal  shore, 
Where  she,  the  sun's  bright  daughter,  dwelt  of  yore  I 

There,  year  by  year,  that  secret  peril  spreads, 

Disguised  in  loveliness,  its  baleful  reign, 

And  viewless  blights  o'er  many  a  landscape  sheds, 

Gay  with  the  riches  of  the  south,  in  vain, 

O'er  fairy  bowers  and  palaces  of  state, 

Passing  unseen,  to  leave  them  desolate. 

And  pillared  halls,  whose  airy  colonnades 
Were  formed  to  echo  music's  choral  tone, 
Are  silent  now,  amidst  deserted  shades,1 
Peopled  by  sculpture's  graceful  forms  alone  ; 
And  fountains  dash  unheard,  by  lone  alcoves, 
Neglected  temples  and  forsaken  groves. 

And  there,  where  marble  nymphs,  in  beauty  gleaming, 

'Midst  the  deep  shades  of  plane  and  cypress  rise, 

By  wave  or  grot  might  Fancy  linger,  dreaming 

Of  old  Arcadia's  woodland  deities, — 

Wild  visions  ! — there  no  sylvan  powers  convene, — 

Death  reigns  the  genius  of  the  Elysian  scene. 

Ye,  too,  illustrious  hills  of  Rome  !  that  bear 
Traces  of  mightier  beings  on  your  brow, 
O'er  you  that  subtle  spirit  of  the  air 
Extends  the  desert  of  his  empire  now ; 


de  Stael's  fine  description,  in  her  Corinne,  of  the  Villa  Borghese,  deserted  on 


t68  THE  MAREMMA. 


Broods  o'er  the  wrecks  of  altar,  fane,  and  dome, 
And  makes  the  Caesar's  ruined  halls  his  home. 

Youth,  valor,  beauty,  oft  have  felt  his  power, 
His  crowned  and  chosen  victims;  o'er  their  lot 
Hath  fond  affection  wept  each  blighted  flower 
In  turn  was  loved  and  mourned,  and  is  forgot. 
But  one  who  perished,  left  a  tale  of  woe, 
Meet  for  as  deep  a  sigh  as  pity  can  bestow. 

A  voice  of  music,  from  Sienna's  walls, 

Is  floating  joyous  on  the  summer  air, 

And  there  are  banquets  in  her  stately  halls, 

And  graceful  revels  of  the  gay  and  (air, 

And  brilliant  wreaths  the  altar  have  arrayed, 

Where  meet  her  noblest  youth  and  loveliest  maid 

To  that  young  bride  each  grace  hath  Nature  given, 
Which  glows  on  Art's  divmest  dream, — her  eye 
I  lath  a  pure  sunbeam  of  her  native  heaven — 
Her  cheek  a  tinge  of  morning's  richest  dye  ; 
Fair  as  that  daughter  of  the  south,  whose  form 
Still  breathes  and  charms,  in  Vinci's  colors  warm.1 

But  is  she  blest  ? — for  sometimes  o'er  her  smile 

A  soft  sweet  shade  of  pensiveness  is  cast ; 

And  in  her  liquid  glance  there  seems  awhile 

To  dwell  some  thought  whose  soul  is  with  the  past: 

Yet  soon  it  flies — a  cloud  that  leaves  no  trace, 

On  the  sky's  azure,  of  its  dwelling-place. 

Perchance,  at  times,  within  her  heart  may  rise 

Remembrance  of  some  early  love  or  woe, 

Faded,  yet  scarce  forgotten — in  her  eyes 

Wakening  the  half-formed  tear  that  may  not  flow  ; 

Yet  radiant  seems  her  lot  as  aught  on  earth, 

Where  still  some  pining  thought  comes  darkly  o'er  our  mirth. 

The  world  before  her  smiles — its  changeful  gaze 
She  hath  not  proved  as  yet ;  her  path  seems  gay 
With  flowers  and  sunshine,  and  the  voice  of  praise 
Is  still  the  joyous  herald  of  her  way ; 
And  beauty's  light  around  her  dwells,  to  throw 
O'er  every  scene  its  own  resplendent  glow. 

Such  is  the  young  Bianca — graced  with  all 

That  nature,  fortune,  youth,  at  once  can  give ; 

Pure  in  their  loveliness — her  looks  recall 

Such  dreams,  as  ne'er  life's  early  bloom  survive ; 

And,  when  she  speaks,  each  thrilling  tone  is  fraught 

With  sweetness,  born  of  high  and  heavenly  thought. 

i  An  allusion  to  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  picture  of  his  wife,  Mona  Lisa,  supposed  to  be  the  most 
perfect   imitation  of  Nature  ever  exhibited  in  painting. — See  Vasari  in  his  Lives  of  tlu  Painter* 


THE  MAREMMA.  269 

And  he  to  whom  are  breathed  her  vows  of  faith 
Is  brave  and  noble — child  of  high  descent, 
He  hath  stood  fearless  in  the  ranks  of  death, 
'Mid  slaughtered  heaps,  the  warrior's  monument: 
And  proudly  marshalled  his  Carroccio's  l  way, 
Amidst  the  wildest  wreck  of  war's  array. 

And  his  the  chivalrous,  commanding  mien, 

Where  high-born  grandeur  blends  with  courtly  grace  ; 

Yet  may  a  lightning  glance  at  times  be  seen, 

Of  fiery  passions,  darting  o'er  his  face, 

And  fierce  the  spirit  kindling  in  his  eye — 

But  e'en  while  yet  we  gaze,  its  quick,  wild  flashes  die. 

And  calmly  can  Pietra  smile,  concealing, 

As  if  forgotten,  vengeance,  hate,  remorse  ; 

And  veil  the  workings  of  each  darker  feeling, 

Deep  in  his  soul  concentrating  its  force: 

But  yet.  he  loves — O  I  who  hath  loved,  nor  known 

Affection's  power  exalt  the  bosom  all  its  own  ? 

The  days  roll  on — and  still  Bianca's  lot 
Seems  as  a  path  of  Eden — thou  nnght'st  deem 
That  grief,  the  mighty  chastener,  had  forgot 
To  wake  her  soul  from  life's  enchanted  dream  ; 
And,  if  her  brow  a  moment's  sadness  wear 
It  sheds  but  grace  more  intellectual  there. 

A  few  short  years,  and  all  is  changed — her  fate 
Seems  with  some  deep  mysterious  cloud  o'ercast. 
Have  jealous  doubts  transformed  to  wrath  and  hat*, 
The  love  whose  glow  expression's  power  surpassed  ? 
Lo  !  on  Pietra's  brow  a  sullen  gloom 
Is  gathering  day  by  day,  prophetic  of  her  dopm. 

O  !  can  he  meet  that  eye,  of  light  serene, 
Whence  the  pure  spirit  looks  in  radiance  forth, 
And  view  that  bright  intelligence  of  mien 
Formed  to  express  but  thoughts  of  loftiest  worth, 
Yet  deem  that  vice  within  that  heart  can  reign  ? 
— How  shall  he  e'er  confide  in  aught  on  earth  again? 

In  silence  oft,  with  strange  vindictive  gaze, 

Transient,  yet  filled  with  meaning,  stern  and  wild, 

Her  features,  calm  in  beauty,  he  surveys, 

Then  turns  away,  and  fixes  on  her  child 

So  dark  a  glance,  as  thrills  a  mother's  mind 

With  some  vague  fear,  scarce  owned,  and  I'lulcfmcd. 

There  stands  a  lonely  dwelling,  by  the  wave 
Of  the  blue  deep  which  bathes  Italia's  shore, 
Far  from  all  sounds,  but  rippling  seas  that  lave 

1  See  the  description  of  this  sort  of  consecrated  war-chariot  in  Sisaioudi's  Hiitoire  des  R* 
bliqucs  Italiennes,  &c.  vol.,  i.  p.  394. 


270  THE  MA  RE  MM  A. 


Gray  rocks  with  foliage  richly  shadowed  o'er, 
And  sighing  winds,  that  murmur  through  the  viood, 
Fringing  the  beach  of  that  Hesperian  flood. 

Fair  is  that  house  of  solitude — and  fair 
The  green  Maremma,  far  around  it  spread, 
A  sun-bright  waste  of  beauty — yet  an  air 
Of  brooding  sadness  o'er  the  scene  is  shed, 
No  human  footstep  tracks  the  lone  domain, 
The  desert  of  luxuriance  glows  in  vain. 

And  silent  are  the  marble  halls  that  rise 

'Mid  founts,  and  cypress  walks,  and  olive  groves  : 

All  sleeps  in  sunshine,  'neath  cerulean  skies, 

And  still  around  the  sea-breeze  lightly  roves 

Yet  every  trace  of  man  reveals  alone, 

That  there  life  once  had  flourished — and  is  gone. 

There,  till  around  them  slowly,  softly  stealing, 

The  summer  air,  deceit  in  every  sigh, 

Came  fraught  with  death,  its  power  no  sign  revealing, 

Thy  sires,  Pietra,  dwelt,  in  days  gone  by; 

And  strains  of  mirth  and  melody  have  flowed 

Where  stands,  all  voiceless  now,  the  still  abode. 

And  thither  doth  her  lord,  remorseless,  bear 
Bianca  with  her  child — his  altered  eye 
And  brow  a  stern  and  fearful  calmness  wear, 
While  his  dark  spirit  seals  their  doom — to  die? 
And  the  deep  bodings  of  his  victim's  heart, 
Tell  her,  from  fruitless  hope  at  once  to  part. 

It  is  the  summer's  glorious  prime — and  blending 
Its  blue  transparence  with  the  skies,  the  deep, 
Each  tint  of  heaven  upon  its  breast  descending, 
Scarce  murmurs  as  it  heaves,  in  glassy  sleep 
And  on  its  wave  reflects,  more  softly  bright, 
That  lovely  shore  of  solitude  and  light. 

Fragrance  in  each  warm  southern  gale  is  breathing. 
Decked  with  young  flowers  the  rich  Maremma  glows, 
Neglected  vines  the  trees  are  wildly  wreathing, 
And  the  fresh  myrtle  in  exutorance  blows, 
And  far  around,  a  deep  and  sunnv  bloom 
Mantles  the  scene,  as  garlands  robe  the  tomb. 

Yes  !  'tis  thy  tomb,  Bianca !  fairest  flower ! 
The  voices  that  calls  thee  speaks  in  every  gale, 
Which  o'er  thee  breathing  with  insidious  power, 
Bids  the  young  roses  of  thy  cheek  turn  pale, 
And,  fatal  in  its  softness,  day  by  day, 
Steals  from  that  eye  some  trembling  spark  away. 


THE  MAREMMA.  271 


But  sink  not  yet ;  for  there  are  darker  woes, 
Daughter  of  beauty  !  in  thy  spring-morn  fading, 
Sufferings  more  keen  for  thee  reserved  than  those 
Of  lingering  death,  which  thus  thine  eye  are  shading! 
Nerve  then  thy  heart  to  meet  that  bitter  lot ; 
'Tis  agony — but  soon  to  be  forgot  ! 

What  deeper  pangs  maternal  hearts  can  wring, 
Than  hourly  to  behold  the  spoiler's  breath 
Shedding,  as  mildews  on  the  bloom  of  spring, 
O'er  Infancy's  fair  cheek  the  blight  of  death .' 
To  gaze  and  shrink,  as  gathering  shades  o'ercast 
The  pale  smooth  brow,  yet  watch  it  to  the  last  I 

Such  pangs  were  thine,  young  mother ! — Thou  didst  bend 

O'er  thy  fair  boy,  and  raised  his  drooping  head ; 

And  faint  and  hopeless,  far  from  every  friend, 

Keep  thy  sad  midnight  vigil  near  his  bed, 

And  watch  his  patient,  supplicating  eye, 

Fixed  upon  thee — on  thee! — who  couldst  no  aid  supply: 

There  was  no  voice  to  cheer  thy  lonely  woe 

Through  those  dark  hours — to  thee  the  wind's  low  sigh, 

And  the  faint  murmur  ot  the  ocean's  flow, 

Came  like  some  spirit  whispering — "  He  must  die  I  " 

And  thou  didst  vainly  clasp  him  to  the  breast 

His  young  and  sunny  smile  so  oft  with  hope  had  blest 

Tis  past — that  fearful  trial — he  is  gone  ; 
But  thou,  sad  mourner!  hast  not  long  to  weep; 
The  hour  of  nature's  chartered  peace  comes  on, 
And  thou  shall  share  thine  infant's  holy  sleep. 
A  few  short  sufferings  yet— and  death  shall  be 
As  a  bright  messenger  from  heaven  to  thee. 

But  ask  not— hope  not — one  relenting  thought 

From  him  who  doomed  thee  thus  to  waste  away, 

Whose  heart,  with  sullen,  speechless  vengeance  fraught, 

Broods  in  dark  triumph  o'er  thy  slow  decay; 

And  coldly,  sternly,  silently  can  trace 

The  gradual  withering  of  each  youthful  grace. 

And  yet  the  day  of  vain  remorse  shall  come 

When  thou,  bright  victim  !  on  his  dreams  shall  rise 

Vs  an  accusing  angel — and  thy  tomb, 

A  martyr's  shrine,  be  hallowed  in  his  eyes ! 

Then  shall  thine  innocence  his  bosom  wring, 

More  than  thy  fancied  guilt  with  jealous  pangs  could  sting. 

Lift  thy  meek  eves  to  heaven — for  all  on  earth, 
Young  sufferer  !  fades  before  thee — Thou  art  lone — 
Hope,  Fortune,  Love,  smiled  brightly  on  thy  birth, 
Thine  hour  of  death  is  all  affliction's  own! 


A   TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 

It  is  our  task  to  suffer— and  our  fate 
To  learn  that  mighty  lesson,  soon  or  late. 

The  season's  glory  fades — the  vintage-lay 

Through  joyous  Italy  resounds  no  more  ; 

But  mortal  loveliness  hath  passed  away, 

Fairer  than  aught  in  summer's  glowing  store. 

Beauty  and  youth  are  gone — behold  them  such 

As  death  hath  made  them  with  his  blighting  touch  ! 

The  summer's  breath  came  o'er  them — and  they  died  1 
Softly  it  came  to  give  luxuriance  birth, 
Called  forth  young  nature  in  her  festal  pride, 
But  bore  to  them  their  summons  from  the  earth ! 
Again  shall  blow  that  mild,  delicious  breeze, 
And  wake  to  life  and  light  all  flowers — but  these. 

No  sculptured  urn,  nor  verse  thy  virtues  telling, 

O  lost  and  loveliest  one  !  adorns  thy  grave  ; 

But  o'er  that  humble  cypress-shaded  dwelling 

The  dewdrops  glisten,  and  the  wildflowers  wave — 

Emblems  more  meet,  in  transient  light  and  bloom, 

For  thee,  who  thus  didst  pass  in  brightness  to  the  tomb ! 


A  TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


crowns    yon    savag 


THE    moonbeam,   quivering   o'er    the 

wave, 
Sleeps   in  pale  gold   on  wood   and 

hill, 

The  wild  wind  slumbers  in  its  cave, 
And  heaven  is  cloudless — earth   is 

still  ! 
The    pile,    that 

height 

With  battlement*  of  Gothic  might, 
Rises  in  softer  pomp  arrayed, 
Its  massy  towers  half  lost  in  shade, 
Half  touched  with  mellowing  light  1 
The  rays  of  night,  the  tints  of  time, 

Soft-mingling  on  its  dark-gray  stone, 
O'er  its  rude  strength  and  mien  sub- 
lime 


A  placid  smile  have  thrown  ; 
And  far  beyond,  where  wild  and  high, 
Bounding  the  pale  blue  summer  sky, 
A  mountain  vista  meets  the  eye, 
Its  dark,  luxuriant  woods  assume 
A  penciled  shade,  a  softer  gloom  ; 
Its  jutting  cliffs  have  caught  the  light, 
Its  torrents  glitter  through  the  night, 
While  every  cave  and  deep  recess 
Frowns  in  more  shadowy  awfulness. 

Scarce  moving  on  the  glassy  deep. 
Yon  g"allant  vessel  see.ns  to  sleep, 

But  darting  from  its  side, 
How  swiftly  does  its  boat  design 
A  slender,  silvery,  waving  line 

Of  radiance  o'er  the  tide  1 


A    TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


No  sound  is  on  the  summer  seas, 

I? ut  the  low  dashing  of  the  oar, 
And  faintly  sighs  the  midnight  breeze 

Through  woods  that  fringe  the  rocky 

shore. 

That  boat  has  reached  the  silent  bay, 
I'he  dashing  oar  has  ceased  to  play, 
The   breeze   has    murmured   and   has 

died 

In  forest  shades,  on  ocean's  tide. 
No  step,  no  tone,  no  breath  of  sound 
Disturbs  the  loneliness  profound  ; 
And  midnight  spreads  o'er  earth  and 
main 

A  calm  so  holy  and  so  deep, 
That  voice  of  mortal  were  profane, 

To  break  on  nature's  sleep  ! 
It  is  the  hour  for  thought  to  soar, 

High  o'er  the  cloud  of  earthly  woes; 
For  rapt  devotion  to  adore, 

For  passion  to  repose ; 
And  virtue  to  forget  her  tears, 
In  visions  of  sublimer  spheres! 
For   oh !    those    transient   gleams    of 

heaven, 

To  calmer,  purer  spirits  given, 
Children  of  hallowed  peace,  are  known 
In  solitude  and  shade  alone  ! 
Like   flowers   that  shun   the  blaze  of 

noon, 

To  blow  beneath  the  midnight  moon, 
The  garish  world  they  will  not  bless, 
But  only  live  in  loneliness  ! 

I  lark!    did   some    note    of    plaintive 
swell 

Melt  on  the  stillness  of  the  air  ? 
Or  was  it  fancy's  powerful  spell 

That  woke  such  sweetness  there  ? 
For  wild  and  distant  it  arose, 
Like  sounds   that  bless  the  bard's  re- 
pose, 

When  in  lone  wood  or  mossy  cave 
He  dreams  beside  some  fountain-wave, 
And  fairy  worlds  delight  the  eyes 
Wearied  with  life's  realities. 
— Was  it  illusion  ? — yet  again 
Rises  and  falls  the  enchanted  strain 

Mellow,  and  sweet,  and  faint, 
As  if  some  spirit's  touch  had  given 
The  soul  of  sound  to  harp  of  heaven 

To  soothe  a  dying  saint ! 


Is  it  the  mermaid's  distant  shell, 

Warbling  beneath  the  moonlit  wave  ? 
— Such  witching  tones  might  lure  full 
well 

The  seaman  to  his  grave  I 
Sure  from  no  mortal  touch  ye  rise, 
Wild,  soft,  aerial  melodies! 
—  Is  it  the  song  of  woodland-fay 
From  sparry  grot,  or  haunted  bower  ? 
Hark !  floating  on,  the  magic  lay 

Draws  near  yon  ivied  tower  ! 
Now  nearer  still,  the  listening  ear 
May  catch  sweet  harp-notes,  faint,  yet 

clear ; 
And  accents  low,  as  if  in  fear, 

Thus  murmur,  half  suppressed  : — 
"Awake!  the  moon  is  bright  on  high, 
The  sea  is  calm,  the  bark  is  nigh, 

The  world  is  hushed  to  rest ! " 
Then   sinks  the  voice  —  the  strain   is 

o'er, 

Its  last  low  cadence    dies    along    the 
shore. 

Fair  Bertha  hears  the  expected  song, 
Swift  from  her  tower  she  glides  along; 
No  echo  to  her  tread  awakes, 
Her  fairy  step  no  slumber  breaks, 
And,  in  that  hour  of  silence  deep, 
While  all  around  the  dews  of  sleep 
O'erpower  each  sense,each  eyelid  steep, 
Quick  throbs  her  heart  with  hope  and 

fear, 

Her  dark  eye  glistens  with  a  tear. 
Half-wavering  now,  the  varying  cheek 
And  sudden  pause  her  doubts  bespeak, 
The  lip  now  flushed,  now  pale  as  death, 
The   trembling    frame,   the    fluttering 

breath ! 

Oh  !  in  that  moment,  o'er  her  soul, 
What    struggling  passions  claim  con- 
trol! 

Fear,  duty,  love,  in  conflict'high, 
By  turns  have  won  the  ascendancy ; 
And  as,  all  tremulously  bright, 
Streams   o'er   her   face  the   beam    of 

night, 

What  thousand  mixed  emotions  play 
O'er  that  fair  face,  and  melt  away  : 
Like   forms   whose   quick   succession 

gleams 
O'er  fancy's  rainbow-tinted  dreams  ; 


274 


A  TALE 


THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


Like  the  swift  glancing  lights  that  rise 
'Midst  the  wild  cloud  of  stormy  skies, 

And  traverse  ocean  o'er  ; 
So  in  that  full,  impassioned  eye 
The  changeful  meanings  rise  and  die, 

Just  seen — and  then  no  more  ! 
But  oh  1  too  short  that  pause — again 
Thrills    to    her    heart    that  witching 

strain : — 

"  Awake!  the  midnight  moon  is  bright ; 
Awake  !  the  moments  wing  their  flight; 

Haste !  or  they  speed  in  vain  1 " 

O,  call  of  love  !  thy  potent  spell 

O'er  that  weak  heart  prevails  too  well ; 

The  "  still  small  voice  "  is  heard  no 

more 

That  pleaded  duty's  cause  before, 
And  fear  is  hushed,  and  doubt  is  gone, 
And  pride  forgot,  and  reason  flown  ! 
I  ler  cheek,  whose  color  came  and  fled, 
Kesumes  its  warmest,  brightest  red, 
Her  step  its  quick  elastic  tread, 

Her  eye  its  beaming  smile  ! 
Through  lonely  court  and  silent  hall 
Flits  her  light  shadow  o'er  the  wall, 
And  still  that  low,  harmonious  call 

Melts  on  her  ear  the  while  ! 
Though  love's  quick  car  alone  could 

tell 

Jhe  words  its  accents  faintly  swell : — 
'Awake,  while  yet  the  lingering  night 
And  stars  and  seas  befriend  our  flight, 

O  !  haste,  while  all  is  well ! 

The  halls,  the  courts,  the  gates,  are 

past, 

She  gains  the  moonlit  beach  at  last. 
Who  waits  to  guide  her  trembling  feet  ? 
Who  flies  the  fugitive  to  greet  ? 
He,  to  her  youthful  heart  endeared 
By  all  it  e'er  had  hoped  and  feared, 
Twined   with   each   wish,   with  every 

thought, 

Each  day-dream  fancy  e'er  had  wrought, 
Whose   tints  portray,   with    flattering 

skill, 

What  brighter  worlds  alone  fulfil ! 
— Alas!  that  aught  so  fair  should  fly, 
Thy  blighting  wand,  Reality ! 
A  chieftain's  mien  her  Osbert  bore, 
A  pilgrim's  lowly  robes  he  wore, 


Disguise  that  vainly  strove  to  hide 
Bearing  and  glance  of  martial  pride  \ 
For  he  in  many  a  battle  scene, 
On  many  a  rampart-breach  had  been  ; 
Had  sternly  smiled  at  danger  nigh, 
Had  seen  the  valiant  bleed  and  die, 
And  proudly  reared  on  hostile  tower, 
Midst     falchion-clash,     and     arrowy 

shower, 

Britannia's  banner  high 
And   though   some  ancient  feud   hac 

taught 

His  Bertha's  sire  to  loathe  his  name 
More  noble  warrior  never  fought 

For  glory's  prize,  or  England's  fame 
And  well  his  dark,  commanding  e.ye, 

And  form  and  step  of  stately  grace, 
Accorded  with  achievements  high, 
Soul  of  emprise  and  chivalry, 

Bright  name,  and  generous  race  ! 
His  cheek,  embrowned  by  many  a  sun 
Tells  a  proud  tale  of  glory  won, 
Of  vigil,  march,  and  combat  rude, 
Valor,  and  toil,  and  fortitude  ! 
E'en  while    youth's    earliest    blushe 

threw 

Warm  o'er  that  cheek  their  vivid  hue, 
His  gallant  soul,  his  stripling  form, 
Had  braved  the  battle's  rudest  storm 
When   England's  conquering    archer 

stood, 
And    dyed    thy   plain,   Poitiers,  wit 

blood, 

When  shivered  axe,  and  cloven  shielc 
And    shattered    helmet,  strewed    th 

field, 

And  France  around  her  king  in  vain 
Had  marshalled  valor's  noblest  train 
In  that  dread  strife,  his  lightning  eye 
Had  flashed  with  transport  keen  an 

high. 

And  'midst  the  battle's  wildest  tide, 
Throbbed  his  young  heart  with  hop< 

and  pride. 

Alike  that  fearless  heart  could  braver 
Death  on  the  war-field  or  the  wave ; 
Alike  in  tournament  or  fight, 
That  ardent  spirit  found  delight ! 
Yet  oft,  'midst  hostile  scenes  afar, 

Bright  o'er  his  soul  a  vision  came. 
Rising,  like  some  benignant  star, 
On  stormy  seas,  or  plains  of  war. 


A   TALF.  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTOKY. 


To   soothe,  with   hopes   more   dear 

than  fame, 
The  heart  that  throbbed  to  Bertha's 

name  ! 

And  'midst  the  wildest  rage  of  fight, 
And  in  the  deepest  calm  of  night, 
To  her  his  thoughts  would  wing  their 

flight, 

With  fond  devotion  warm  ; 
Oft  would  those  glowing  thoughts  por- 
tray 
Some  home,  from  tumults  far  away, 

Graced  with  that  angel  form  ! 
And  now  his  spirit  fondly  deems 
Fulfilled  its  loveliest,  dearest  dreams  ! 

Who,  with  pale  cheek,  and  locks  of 

snow, 

in  minstrel  garb,  attends  the   chief  ? 
The  moonbeam  on  his  thoughtful  brow 

Reveals  a  shade  of  grief. 
Sorrow  and  time  have  touched  his  face, 
With  mournful  yet  majestic  grace, 
Soft  as  the  melancholy  smile 
Of  sunset  on  some  ruined  pile  ! 
— It  is  the  bard  whose  song  had  power 
To  lure  the  maiden  from  her  tower  ; 
The  bard  whose  wild,  inspiring  lays, 
E'en  in  gay  childhood's  earliest  davs, 
First    woke,    in    Osbert's    kindling 

breast, 

The  flame  that  will  not  be  represt, 
The  pulse  that  throbs  for  praise  ! 
Those  lays  had  banished  from  his  eye, 
The  bright,  soft  tears  of  infancy, 
Had  soothed  the  boy  to  calm  repose, 
Had  hushed  his  bosom's  earliest  woes  ; 
And  when  the  light  of  thought  awoke, 
When  first  young  reason's  day-spring 

broke, 

More  powerful  still,  they  bade  arise 
His  spirit's  burning  energies! 
Then  the  bright  dream  of  glory  warmed, 
Then     the     loud     pealing     war-song 

charmed. 

The  legends  of  each  martial  line, 
The  battle  tales  of  Palestine: 
And   oft,   since    then,    A  is    deeds    had 

proved, 

Themes  of  ».he  lofty  lays  he  loved  ! 
Now,  at  triumphant  love's  command, 
Since  Osbert  leaves  his  native  land, 


Forsaking  glory's  high  career, 

For  her,  than  glory  far  more  dear  ; 

Since  hope's  gay  dream,  and  meteor 

-       ray, 

To  distant  regions  points  his  way, 

That  there  Affection's  hands  may  dress 

A  fairy  bower  for  happiness  ; 

That  fond,  devoted  bard,  though  now 

Time's    wintry    garland    wreaths    his 

brow, 
Though  quenched  the  sunbeam  of  hi* 

eye, 

And  fled  his  spirit's  buoyancy, 
And  strength  and  enterprise  are  past, 
Still  follows  constant  to  the  last  ! 

Though  his  sole  wish  was  but  to  die 
'Midst  the  calm  scenes  of  days  gone  by  > 
And  all  that  hallows  and  endears 
The  memory  of  departed  years — 
Sorrow,  and  joy,  and  time,  have  twined 
To   those   loved  scenes,   his    pensive 

mind  ; 

Ah  !  what  can  tear  the  links  apart, 
That  bind  his  chieftain  to  his  heart  ? 
What  smile  but  his  with  joy  can  light 
The  eye  obscured  by  age's  night  ? 
Last  of  a  loved  and  honored  line, 
Last  tie  to  earth  in  life's  decline, 
Till  death  its  lingering  spark  shall  dim. 
That  faithful  eye  must  gaze  on  him  ! 

Silent  and  swift,  with  footstep  light, 
Haste  on  those  fugitives  of  night, 
They  reached  the  boat — the  rapid  oar 
Soon   wafts    them    from    the   wooded 

shore, 

The  bark  is  gained — a  gallant  few, 
Vassals  of  Osbert,  form  its  crew  ; 
The  pennant,  in  the  moonlight  beam, 

With  soft  suffusion  glows  ; 
From  the  white  sail  a  silvery  gleam 

Falls  on  the  wave's  repose  ; 
Long  shadows  undulating  play, 
From  mast  and  streamer,  o'er  the  bay 
Rut  still  so  hushed  the  summer-air, 
They  tremble,  'midst  that  scene  so  fair. 
Lest   morn's  fust,  beam  behold   them 

there.  • 
— Wake,  viewless  wanderer!  breeze  oi 

night, 
From  river-wave,  or  mountain-height, 


170 


A   TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


Or    dew-bright    couch    of    moss    and 

flowers, 

By  haunted  spring,  in  forest  bowers; 
Or  dost  thou  lurk  in  pearly  cell, 
In  amber  grot,  where  mermaids  dwell, 
And  caverned  gems  their  lustre   throw 
O'er  the  red  sea-flowers'  vivid  glow  ? 
Where  treasures,  not  for  mortal  gaze, 
In  solitary  splendor  blaze  ; 
And  sounds,  ne'er  heard  by  mortal  ear. 
Swell  through  the  deep's  unfathomed 

sphere  ? 

What  grove  of  that  mysterious  world 
Holds  thy  light  wing  in  slumber  furled  ? 
Awake  !  o'er  glittering  seas  to  rove, 
Awake  !  to  guide  the  bark  of  love  ! 
Swift  fly  the  midnight  hours,  and  soon 
Shall  fade  the  bright  propitious  moon ; 
Soon  shall  the  waning  stars  grow  pale, 
E'en  now — but  lo  !  the  rustling  sail 
Swells  to  the  new-sprung  ocean  gale  ! 
The  bark  glides  on — their  fears  arc  o'er, 
Recedes  the  bold  romantic  shore, 

Its  features  mingling  fast ; 
Gaze,  Bertha,  gaze,  thy  lingering  eye 
May  still  each  lovely  scene  descry 

Of  years  forever  past ! 
There  wave  the  woods,  beneath  wnose 

shade, 
With   bounding   step,   thy    childhood 

played ; 

'Midst  ferny  glades,  and  mossy  lawns, 
Free  as  their  native  birds  and  fawns  ; 
Listening  the  sylvan«sounds,  that  float 
On  each  low  breeze,  'midst  dells  re- 
mote ; 

The  ringdove's  deep,  melodious  moan, 
The  rustling  deer  in  thickets  lone  ; 
The  wild-bee's  hum,  the  aspen's  sigh, 
The  wood-stream's  plaintive  harmony. 
Dear  scenes  of  many  a  sportive  hour, 
There     thy    own     mountains     darkly 

tower  I 

'Midst  their  gray  rocks  no  glen  so  rude, 
But  thou  hast  loved  its  solitude  ! 
No  path  so  wild  but  thou  hast  known, 
And  traced  its  rugged  course  alone ! 
The   earliest  wreath  that  bound   thy 

hair, 
Was  twined  of  glowing  heath-flowers 

there. 


There,  in  the  dayspring  of  thy  years, 
Undimmed  by  passions  or  by  tears, 
Oft,  while  thy  bright,  enraptured  eye 
Wandered  o'er  ocean,  earth,  or  sky, 
While  the  wild  breeze  that  round  thce 

blew,  [hue ; 

Tinged    thy  warm  check    with  richer 
Pure  as  the  skies  that  o'er  thy  head 
Their  clear  and  cloudless  azure  spread ; 
Pure  as  that   gale,  whose   light   wing 

drew 

Its  freshness  from  the  mountain  dew  ; 
Glowed  thy  young  heart  with  feelings 

high, 

A  heaven  of  hallowed  ecstasy  ! 
Such  days  were  thine  !  ere  love  had 

drawn 

A  cloud  o'er  that  celestial  dawn  ! 
As  the  clear  dews  in  morning's  beam, 
With  soft  reflected  coloring  stream, 
Catch  every  tint  of  eastern  gem, 
To  form  the  rose's  diadem  ; 
But  vanish  when  the  noontide  hour 
Glows  fiercely  on  the  shrinking  flower  ; 
Thus  in  thy  soul  each  calm  delight, 
Like  morn's  first  dewdrops,  pure  and 

bright, 

Fled  swift  from  passion's  blighting  fire, 
Or  lingered  only  to  expire ! 

Spring,  on  thy  native  hills  again, 

Shall  bid  neglected  wildflowers  rise, 
And  call  forth,  in  each  grassy  glen, 

Her  brightest  emerald  dyes  ! 
There  shall  the  lonely  mountain-rose, 
Wreath  of  the  cliffs,  again  disclose  ; 
'Midst  rocky  dells,  each  well-known 

stream, 

Shall  sparkle  in  the  summer  beam; 
The  birch,  o'er  precipice  and  cave, 
Its  feathery  foliage  still  shall  wave  ; 
The  ash  'midst  rugged  clefts  unveil 
Its  coral  clusters  to  the  gale, 
And  autumn  shed  a  warmer  bloom 
O'er  the  rich  heath  and  glowing  broom. 
But  thy  light  footstep  there  no  more, 
Each  path,  each  dingle  shall  explore 
In  vain'may  smile  each  green  recess, 
— Who  now  shall  pierce  its  loneliness  ? 
The    stream   through  shadowy    glens 
may  stray,  [way  ? 

— Who  now  shall  trace  its  glistening 


A    TALK  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


In  solitude,  in  silence  deep, 

Shrined  'midst  her  rocks,  shall   echo 

sleep, 

No  lute's  wild  swell  again  shall  rise, 
To  wake  her  mystic  melodies. 
All  soft  may  blow  the  mountain  air, 
— It  will  not  wave  thy  graceful  hair  ! 
The  mountain  rose  may  bloom  and  die, 
— It  will  not  meet  thy  smiling  eye  ! 
But  like  those  scenes  of  vanished  days, 

Shall  others  ne'er  delight ; 
Far  lovelier  lands  shall  meet  thy  gaze, 

Yet  seem  not  half  so  bright ! 
O'er  the  dim  woodlands  fading  hue, 

Still  gleams  yon  Gothic  pile  on  high ; 
Gaze  on,  while  yet  'tis  thine  to  view 

That  home  of  infancy !  [er, 

Heed  not  the  night-dew's  chilling  pow- 
Heed  not  the  sea-wind's  coldest  hour, 
Hut  pause,  and  linger  on  the  deck, 
Till  of'those  towers  no  trace,  no  spec, 

Is  gleaming  o'er  the  main ; 
For  when  the  mist  of  morn  shall  rise, 
Blending  the  sea,  the  shores,  the  skies, 
That  home,  once  vanished,  from  thine 
eyes, 

Shall  bless  them  ne'er  again! 
There  the  dark  tales  and  songs  ^f  yore, 

First  with  strange  transport  filled  thy 

soul, 
E'en  while  their  fearful,  mystic  lore, 

From  thy  warm  cheek  the  life-bloom 

stole ; 

There,  while  thy  father's  raptured  ear, 
Dwelt  fondly  on  a  strain  so  dear, 
And  in  his  eye  the  trembling  tear, 

Revealed  his  spirit's  trance  ; 
How  oft,  those  echoing  halls  along, 
Thy  thrilling  voice   has    swelled    the 

song, 

Tradition  wild  of  other  days, 
Or  troubadour's  heroic  lays, 

Or  legend  of  romance ! 
Oh  !    many  an   hour   has   there   been 
thine, 

That  memory's  pencil  oft  shall  dress 
In  softer  shades,  and  tints  that  shine 

In  mellowed  loveliness  I 
While  thy  sick  heart,  and  fruitless  tears, 
Shall  mourn,  with  deep  and  fond  re 


The  sunshine  of  thine  early  years, 

Scarce  deemed  so  radiant — till  it  set'. 
The  cloudless  peace,  unprized  till  gone. 
The  bliss,  till  vanished,  hardly  known  ! 

On  rock  and  turret,  wood  and  hill, 
The  fading  moonbeams  linger  still ; 
Still,  Bertha,  gaze  on  yon«gray  tower, 
At  evening's  last  and  sweetest  hour, 
While  varying  still,  the  western  skies 
Flushed  the  clear  seas  with  rainbow- 
dyes,  [passed, 
Whose   warm   suffusions  glowed  and 
Each  richer,  lovelier,  than  the  last ; 
How  oft,  while  gazing  on  the  deep. 
That  seemed  a  heaven  of  peace  to  sleep, 
As  if  its  wave,  so  still,  so  fair, 
More  frowning  mien  might  never  wear, 
The  twilight  calm  of  mental  rest, 
Would  steal  in  silence  o'er  thy  breast, 
And  wake  that  dear  and  balmy  sigh, 
That  softly  breathes  the  spirit's  har- 
mony! 
— Ah  !  ne'er  again  shall  ours  to  thee  be 

given, 

Of  joy  on   earth — so   near   allied    to 
Heaven ! 

Why  starts  the  tear  to  Bertha's  eye 
Is  not  her  long-loved  Osbert  nigh  ? 
Is  there  a  grief  his  voice,  his  smile, 
His  words,  are  fruitless  to  beguile  ? 
— Oh  1  bitter  to  the  youthful  heart, 

That  scarce  a  pang,  a  care  has  known. 
The  hour  when  first  from  scenes  we 
part, 

Where  life's  bright  spring  has  flown ! 
Forsaking,  o'er  the  world  to  roam, 
That  little  shrine  of  peace — our  home  I 
E'en  if  delighted  fancy  throw 
O'er    that    cold    world,  her  brightest 

glow. 

Painting  its  untried  paths  with  flowers. 
That  will  not  live  in  earthly  bowers 
(Too  frail,  too  exquisite,  to  bear 
One  breath  of  life's  ungenial  air) ; 
E'en  if  such  dreams  of  hope  arise, 
As  Heaven  alone  can  realize  ; 
Cold  were  the  breast  that  would  not 

heave 
One  sigh,  the  home  of  youth  to  leave 


A   TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


Stern  were  the  heart  that  would  not 

swell 

TO  breathe  life's  saddest  word — fare- 
well ! 

Though  earth  has  many  a  deeper  woe, 
Though   tears,  more    bitter   far,  must 

flow, 

That  hour,  whate'er  our  future  lot. 
That  first  fond  grief,  is  ne'er  forgot ! 

Such  was  the  pang  of  Bertha's  heart, 
The  thought,  that  bade   the  tear-drop 
start  ; 

And  Osbert  by  her  side 
Heard  the  deep  sigh,  whose  bursting 

swell 

Nature's  fond  struggle  told  too  well ; 
And  days  of  future  bliss  portrayed, 
And  love's  own  eloquence  essayed, 

To  soothe  his  plighted  bride  I 
Of  bright  Arcadian  scenes 'he  tells, 

In  that  sweet  land  to  which  they  fly; 
The  vine-clad  rocks,  the  fragrant  dells 

Of  blooming  Italy. 
For  he  had  roved  a  pilgrim  there, 
And  gazed  on  many  a  spot  so  fair, 
It  seemed  like  some  enchanted  grove, 
Where  only  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 
Those  exiles  of  the  world,  might  rove, 

And  breathe  its  heavenly  air ; 
And,  all  unmixed  with  ruder  tone, 
Their  "  wood-notes   wild "    be    heard 
alone  ! 

Far  from  the  frown  of  stern  control, 
That  vainly  would  subdue  the  soul, 
There  shall  their  long  affianced  hands, 
}ie  joined  in  consecrated  bands, 
And  in  some  rich,  romantic  vale, 

Circled  with  heights  of  Alpine  snow, 
Where  citron-woods  enrich  the  gale, 
And  scented  shrubs  their  balm  exhale, 

And  flowering  myrtles  blow  ; 
And  'midst  the   mulberry  boughs   on 

high, 

Weaves  the  wild  vine  her  tapestry: 
On  some  bright    streamlet's   emerald 

side, 

Where  cedars  wave,  in  graceful  pride, 
Bosomed  in  groves,  their  home  shall 

rise, 
A.  sheltered  bower  of  Paradise  ! 


Thus  would  the  lover  soothe  to  rest 
\Vithtales  of  hope  her  anxious  breast '; 
Nor  vain  that  dear  enchanting  lore, 
Her  soul's  bright  visions  to  restore, 
And  bid  gay  phantoms  of  delight 
Float,  in  soft  coloring,  o'er  her  sight. 
— Oh  !  youth,  sweet  May-morn,  fled  so 

soon, 

Far  brighter  than  life's  loveliest  noon, 
How  oft  thy  spirit's  buoyant  power 
Will  triumph,  e'en  in  sorrow's  hour 

Prevailing  o'er  regret ! 
As  rears  its  head  the  elastic  flower 
Though    the    dark    tempest's    recent 

shower 
Hang  on  its  petals  yet  I 

Ah  !  not  so  soon  can  hope's  gay  smile 
The  aged  bard  to  joy  beguile ; 
Those  silent  years  that  steal  away 
The  cheek's  warm  rose,  the  eye's  bright 

ray, 

Win  from  the  mind  a  nobler  prize, 
E'en  all  its  buoyant  energies  ! 
For  him  the  April  days  are  past, 

When  grief  was  but  a  fleeting  cloud; 
No  transient  shade  will  sorrow  cast, 

When   age   the   spirit's   might    has 
bowed ! 

And,  as  he  sees  the  land  grow  dim, 
That  native  land,  now  lost  to  him, 
Fixed  are  his  eyes,  and  clasped  his 

hands, 
And  long  in  speechless  grief  he  stands. 

So  desolately  calm  his  air, 
He  seems  an  image,  wrought  to  bear 
The   stamp   of  deep,    though   hushed 

despair ; 

Motion  and  life  no  sign  bespeaks 
Save   that   the   night-breeze,   o'er   his 

cheeks, 

Just  waves  his  silvery  hair !  [know 
Naught  else  could  teach  the  eye  to 
He  was  no  sculptured  form  of  woe  ! 

Long  gazing  o'er  the  darkening  flood, 
Pale  in  that  silent  grief  he  stood ; 
Till  the  cold  moon  was  waning  fast, 

And  many  a  lovely  star  had  died, 
And  the  gray  heavens  deep  shadows 
cast, 

Far  o'er  the  slumbering  tide , 


A    TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CKXTl'KY. 


And  robed  in  one  dark  solemn  hue, 
Arose  the  distant  shore  to  view. 
Then,  starting  irom  his  trance  of  woe, 
Tears,   long   suppressed,    in    freedom 

flow, 
While    thus    his   wild    and    plaintive 

strain, 
Blends  with  the  murmur  of  the  main. 

THE  BARD'S  FAREWELL. 

Thou  setting  moon  !  when  next  thy  rays 
Are  trembling  on  the  shadowy  deep, 
The  land,  now  fading  from  my  gaze, 

These  eyes  in  vain  shall  weep; 
And  wander  o'er  the  lonely  sea, 
And  fix  their  tearful  glance  on  thcc, 
On  thee  !  whose  light  so  softly  gleams, 
Through  the  green  oaks  that  fringe  my 
native  streams. 

But,  'midst   those   ancient  groves,  no 

more 

Shall  I  thy  quivering  lustre  hail, 
Its  plaintive  strain  my  heart  must  pour, 

To  swell  a  foreign  gale  ; 
The   rocks,  the  woods,  whose  echoes 

woke, 

When  its  full  tones  their  stillness  broke, 
Deserted  now,  shall  hear  alone. 
The  brook's  wild  voice,  the  wind's  mys- 
terious moan. 

And  oh  !  ye  fair,  forsaken  halls, 

Left  by  your  lord  to  slow  decay, 
Soon  shall  the  trophies  on  your  walls 

Be  mouldering  fast  away  ! 
There  shall  no  choral  songs  resound, 
There  shall  no  festal  board  be  crowned ; 
But  ivy  wreath  the  silent  gate, 
And  all  be  hushed,  and  cold,  and  deso- 
late. 

No  banner  from  the  stately  tower, 
Shall  spread  its  blazoned  folds  on 
high, 

There  the  wild  brier  and  summer  flower 
Unmarked,  shall  wave  and  die. 


Home  of  the  mighty  !  thou  art  lone. 
The  noonday  of  thy  pride  is  gone, 
And,  'midst  thy  solitude  profound, 
A  step  shall  echo  like  unearthly  sound! 

From  thy  cold  hearths  no  festal  blaze 

Shall  fill  the  hall  with  ruddy  light, 
Nor  welcome,  with  convivial  rays, 

Some  pilgrim  of  the  night; 

But     there     shall     grass     luxuriant 
spread, 

As  o'er  the  dwellings  of  the  dead  ; 

And  the  deep  swell  of  every  blast, 
Seem  a  wild  dirge  for  years  of  grandeur 
past. 


And  I—i 


of  life  is  fled, 


nd  I — my  joy  of  life  is  fled, 

My   spirit's    power,   my    bosom's 

glow, 
The   raven   locks   that   graced    my 

head, 

Wave  in  a  wreath  of  snow  ! 
And  where  the  star  of  youth  arose, 
I  deemed  life's  lingering  ray  should 

close, 
And    those    loved    trees    my   tomb 

o'ershaile, 

Beneath   whose    arching    bowers    my 
childhood  played. 

Vain  dream ;    that  tomb  in  distant 
earth 

Shall  rise,  forsaken  and  forgot ; 
And  thou,  sweet  land,  that  gavest  mr 
birth, 

A  grave  must  yield  me  not ! 
Yet,  haply  he  for  whom  I  leave 
Thy  shores,  in  life's  dark  winter-eve. 
When  cold  the  hand,  and  closed  the 

lays, 
And   mute   the   voice    he    loved    to 

praise, 
O'er  the  hushed  harp  one  tear  may 

shed, 
And  one  frail  garland  o'er  the  minstrel's 

bed! 


BELSHAZZAtfS  FEAST. 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST. 

'TWAS  night  in  Babylon  :  yet  many  a  beam, 

Of  lamps  far  glittering  from  her  domes  on  high, 

Shone,  brightly  mingling  in  Euphrates'  stream 

With  the  clear  stars  of  that  Chaldean  sky, 

Whose  azure  knows  no  cloud  :  each  whispered  sigh 

Of  the  soft  night-breeze  through  her  terrace  bowers, 

Bore  deepening  tones  of  joy  and  melody, 

O'er  an  illumined  wilderness  of  flowers  ; 

And  the  glad  city's  voice  went  up  from  all  her  towers. 

But  prouder  mirth  was  in  the  kingly  hall, 
Where,  'midst  adoring  slaves,  a  gorgeous  band, 
High  at  the  stately  midnight  festival, 
Belshazzar  sat  enthroned.     There  luxury's  hand 
Had  showered  around  all-  treasures  that  expand 
Beneath  the  burning  East ;  all  gems  that  pour 
The  sunbeams  back  ;  all  sweets  of  many  a  land. 
Whose  gales  waft  incense  from  their  spicy  shore  ; 
— But  mortal  pride  looked  on,  and  still  demanded  more. 

With  richer  zest  the  banquet  may  be  fraught, 
A  loftier  theme  may  swell  the  exulting  strain! 
The  lord  of  nations  spoke, — and  forth  were  brought 
The  spoils  of  Salem's  devasta'.ed  fane. 
Thrice  holy  vessels  ! — pure  from  earthly  stain, 
And  set  apart,  and  sanctified  to  Him, 
Who  deigned  within  the  oracle  to  reign, 
Revealed,  yet  shadowed  ;  making  noonday  dim, 
To  that  most  glorious  cloud  between  the  cherubim. 

They  came,  and  louder  pealed  the  voice  of  song, 
And  pride  flashed  brighter  from  the  kindling  eye, 
And  He  who  sleeps  not  heard  the  elated  throng, 
In  mirth  that  plays  with  thunderbolts,  defy 
The  Rock  of  Zion !— Fill  the  nectar  high, 
High  in  the  cups  of  consecrated  gold  ! 
And  crown  the  bowl  with  garlands,  ere  they  die, 
And  bid  the  censers  of  the  temple  hold 
Offerings  to  Babel's  gods,  the  mighty  ones  of  old  ! 

Peace  ! — is  it  but  a  phantom  of  the  brain, 
Thus  shadowed  forth,  the  senses  to  appal, 
Yon  fearful  vision  ? — Who  shall  gaze  again 
To  search  its  cause  ? — Along  the  illumined  wall, 
Startling,  yet  riveting  the  eyes  of  all. 
Darkly  it  moves, — a  hand,  a  human  hand, 
O'er  the  bright  lamps  of  that  rrsplendent  hall, 


BELSHAZZAPS  FEAST.  281 

In  silence  tracing,  as  a  mystic  wand, 

Words  all  unknown,  the  tongue  of  some  far  distant  laud  \ 

There  are  pale  cheeks  around  the  regal  board, 

And  quivering  limbs,  and  whispers  deep  and  low, 

And  fitful  starts  ! — the  wine,  in  triumph  poured, 

Untasted  foams,  the  song  hath  ceased  to  flow, 

The  waving  censer  drops  to  earth — and  ID  ! 

The  king  of  men,  the  ruler,  girt  with  mirth, 

Trembles  before  a  shadow  ! — Say  not  so  ! 

— The  child  of  dust,  with  guilt's  foreboding  sight, 

Shrinks  from  the  dread  Unknown,  the  avenging  Infinite  I 

"  But  haste  ye  ! — bring  Chaklea's  gifted  seers, 

The  men  of  prescience  ! — haply  to  their  eyes, 

Which  track  the  future  through  the  rolling  spheres, 

Yon  mystic  sign  may  speak  in  prophecies." 

They  come — the  readers  of  the  midnight  skies, 

They  that  gave  voice  to  visions — but  in  vain  ! 

Still  wrapt  in  clouds  the  awful  secret  lies, 

It  hath  no  language  'midst  the  starry  train, 

Earth  has  no  gifted  tongue  Heaven's  mysteries  to  explain. 

Then  stood  forth  one,  a  child  of  other  sires, 

And  other  inspiration  ! — one  of  those 

Who  on  the  willows  hung  their  captive  lyres, 

And  sat,  and  wept,  where  Babel's  river  flows. 

His  eye  was  bright,  and  yet  the  pale  repose 

Of  his  pure  features  half  o'erawed  the  mind,    . 

Telling  of  inward  mysteries — joys  and  woes 

In  lone  recesses  of  the  soul  enshrined  ; 

Depths  of  a  being  sealed  and  severed  from  mankind. 

Yes  ! — what  was  earth  to  him,  whose  spirit  passed 

Time's  utmost  bounds  ! — on  whose  unshrinking  sight 

Ten  thousand  shapes  of  burning  glory  cast 

Their  full  resplendence  ? — Majesty  and  might 

Were  in  his  dreams ; — for  him  the  veil  of  light 

Shrouding  Heaven's  inmost  sanctuary  and  throne, 

The  curtain  of  the  unutterably  bright 

Was  raised  ! — to  him,  in  fearful  splendor  shown, 

Ancient  of  Days !  e'en  Thou  madest  thy  dread  presence  known 

He  spoke  :  the  shadows  of  the  things  to  come 

Passed  o'er  his  soul :  "O  king,  elate  in  pride  ! 

God  hath  sent  forth  the  writing  of  thy  doom — 

The  one,  the  living  God  by  thce  defied  1 

He,  in  whose  balance  earthly  lords  are  tried, 

Hath  weighed,  and  found  thee  wanting.     'Tis  decreed 

The  conqueror's  hands  thy  kingdom  shall  divide, 

The  stranger  to  thy  throne  of  power  succeed  ! 

Thy  days  are  full — they  come, — the  Persian  and  the  Mede  1  ** 


482  BELStiAZZAFS  FEAST. 


There  fell  a  moment's  thrilling  silence  round — 
A  breathless  pause ! — the  hush  of  hearts  that  beat. 
And  limbs  that  quiver: — Is  there  not  a  sound, 
A  gathering  cry,  a  tread  of  hurrying  feet  ? 
— 'Twos  but  some  echo  in  the  crowded  street, 
Of  far  heard  revelry  ;  the  shout,  the  song, 
The  measured  dance  to  music  wildly  sweet, 
That  speeds  the  stars  their  joyous  course  along — 
Away ;  nor  let  a  dream  disturb  the  festal  throng  I 

Peace  yet  again  !     Hark !  steps  in  tumult  flying, 
Steeds  rushing  on,  as  o'er  a  battle-field ! 
The  shouts  of  hosts  exulting  or  defying, 
The  press  of  multitudes  that  strive  or  yield  ! 
And  the  loud  startling  clash  of  spear  and  shield, 
Sudden  as  earthquake's  burst ;  and,  blent  with  these, 
The  last  wild  shriek  of  those  whose  doom  is  sealed 
In  their  full  mirth ; — all  deepening  on  the  breeze, 
As  the  long  stormy  roll  of  far-advancing  seas  I 

And  nearer  yet  the  trumpet's  blast  is  swelling, 

Loud,  shrill,  and  savage,  drowning  every  cry : 

And,  lo !  the  spoiler  in  the  regal  dwelling, 

Death — bursting  on  the  halls  of  revelry! 

Ere  on  their  brows  one  fragile  rose-leaf  die, 

The  sword  hath  raged  through  joy's  devoted  train ; 

Ere  one  bright  star  be  faded  from  the  sky, 

Red  flames,  like  banners,  wave  from  dome  and  fane  ; 

Empire  is  lost  and  won — Belshazzar  with  the  slain.1 


1  As  originally  written,  the  following  additional  stanzas  (afterwards  omitted)  concluded  il.it 

Fallen  is  the  golden  city! — in  the  dust, 
Spoiled  of  her  crown,  dismantled  of  her  state, 
She  that  hath  made  the  strength  of  towers  her  trust, 
Weeps  by  her  dead,  supremely  desolate ! 
She  that  beheld  the  nations  at  her  gate, 
Thronging  in  homage,  shall  be  called  no  more 
Lady  of  kingdoms.     Who  shall  mourn  her  fate? 
Her  gu.lt  is  full,  her  march  of  triumph  o'er — 
.     What  widowed  land  shall  now  her  widowhood  deplore? 

Sit  thou  in  silence !     Thou  that  wert  enthroned 
On  many  waters! — thou,  whose  augurs  read 
The  language  of  the  planets,  and  disowned 
The  Mighty  .Name  it  blazons! — veil  thy  head, 
Daughter  of  Babylon  ! — the  sword  is  red 
From  thy  destroyer's  harvest,  and  the  yoke 
Is  on  thee,  O  most  proud ! — for  thou  hast  said, 
"  I  am,  and  none  beside!  "     The  Eternal  spoke: 
Thy  glory  was  a  spoil,  thine  idol-gods  were  broke  1 

But  go  thou  forth,  O  Israel ! — wake !  rejoice ! 
Be  clothed  with  strength,  as  in  thine  ancient  day! 
Renew  the  sound  of  harps,  the  exulting  voice, 
The  mirth  of  timbrels! — loose  the  chain,  and  say 
God  hath  redeemed  His  people! — from  decay 
The  silent  and  the  trampled  shall  arise ! 
— Awake !— put  on  thy  beautiful  array! 


THE  LAST  COMSTAMT/NE.  283 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE 


•  •        *         "  Thou  strives!  nobly, 

When  hearts  of  sterner  stuff  perhaps  had  ^unk  ; 

And  o'er  thy  fall,  if  it  be  so  decreed, 

Good  men  will  mourn,  and  brave  men  will  shed  tear*. 


•        •        «        *        Fame  I  look  not  for, 
But  to  sustain,  in  Heaven's  all-seeing  eye, 
1'efore  my  fellow-men,  in  mine  own  sight, 
With  graceful  virtue  and  becoming  pride, 
The  dignity  and  honor  of  a  man, 
Thus  stationed  as  1  am,  I  will  do  all 
That  man  may  do." 

Miss  BAILLIB'S  Constant!™ 


THE  fires  grew  pale  on  Rome's  deserted  shrines, 
In  the  dim  grot  the  Pythia's  voice  had  died ; 
— Shout,  for  the  city  of  the  Constantines, 
The  rising  city  of  the  billow-side, 
The  City  of  the  Cross  ! — great  ocean's  bride, 
Crowned  with  her  birth  she  sprung  !     Long  ages  past, 
And  still  she  looked  in  glory  o'er  the  tide, 
Which  at  her  feet  barbaric  riches  cast, 
Poured  by  the  burning  East,  all  joyously  and  fast. 

II. 

Long  ages  past !— they  left  her  porphyry  halls 
Still  trod  by  kingly  footsteps.     Gems  and  gold 
Broidered  her  mantle,  and  her  castled  walls 
Frowned  in  their  strength  ;  yet  there  were  signs  which  tol« 
The  days  were  full.     The  pure  high  faith  of  old 
Was  changed  ;  and  on  her  silken  couch  of  sleep 
She  lay,  and  murmured  if  a  rose-leaf's  fold 
Disturbed  her  dreams  ;  and  called  her  slaves  to  keep 
Their  watch,  that  no  rude  sound  might  reach  her  o'er  the  deep. 

O  long-forsaken  Zion  !— to  the  skies 
Send  up  011  every  wind  thy  choral  melodies  I 

And  lift  thy  head !— Behold  thy  sons  returning, 
Redeemed  from  exile,  ransomed  from  the  chain, 
Light  hath  revisited  the  house  of  mourning  ; 
She  that  on  Judah's  mountains  wept  in  rain, 
Because  her  children  were  not— dwells  afcain, 
Girt  with  the  lovely!— through  thy  streets,  once  more, 
City  of  God !  shall  pass  the  bridal  train, 
And  the  bright  lamps  their  festive  radiance  pour, 
And  the  triumphal  hymns  thy  joy  of  youth  restore  I 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


But  there  are  sounds  that  from  the  regal  dwelling 
Free  hearts  and  fearless  only  may  exclude  ; 
'Tis  not  alone  the  wind,  at  midnight  swelling, 
15reaks  on  the  soft  repose  by  luxury  wooed  ! 
There  are  unbidden  footsteps,  which  intrude 
Where  the  lamps  glitter,  and  the  wine-cup  flows. 
And  darker  hues  have  stained  the  marble,  strewed 
With  the  fresh  myrtle,  and  the  short-lived  rose, 
And  Parian  walls  have  rung  to  the  dread  march  of  foes. 

IV. 

A  voice  of  multitudes  is  on  the  breeze, 
Remote,  yet  solemn  as  the  night-storm's  roar 
Through  Ida's  giant-pines !     Across  the  seas 
A  murmur  comes,  like  that  the  deep  winds  bore 
From  Tempe's  haunted  river  to  the  shore 
Of  the  reed  crowned  Eurotas  ;  when,  of  old, 
Dark  Asia  send  her  battle-myriads  o'er 
The  indignant  wave,  which  would  not  be  controlled. 
But  past  the  Persian's  chain  in  boundless  freedom  rolled 


And  it  is  thus  again  ! — Swift  oars  are  dashing 
The  parted  waters,  and  a  light  is  cast 
On  their  white  foam-wreaths,  from  the  sudden  flashing 
Of  Tartar  spears,  whose  ranks  are  thickening  fast. 
There  swells  a  savage  trumpet  on  the  blast, 
A  music  of  the  deserts,  wild  and  deep, 
Wakening  strange  echoes,  as  the  shores  are  passed 
Where  low  'midst  Ilion's  dust  her  conquerors  sleep, 
O'ershadowing  with  high  names  each  rude  sepulchral  heap. 


War  from  the  West ! — the  snows  on  Thracian  hills 
Are  loosed  by  Spring's  warm  breath  ;  yet  o'er  the  lands 
Which  Haemus  girds,  the  chainless  mountain  rills 
Pour  down  less  swiftly  than  the  Moslem  bands. 
War  from  the  East  ! — 'midst  Araby's  lone  sands, 
More  lonely  now  the  few  bright  founts  may  be, 
While  Ismael's  bow  is  bent  in  warrior-hands 
Against  the  Golden  City  of  the  sea  : 
—Oh!  for  a,  soul  to  fire  thy  dust.Thermopyla:  I 


Hear  yet  again,  ye  mighty  ! — Where  are  they, 
Who,  with  their  green  Olympic  garlands  crowned 
Leaped  up,  in  proudly  beautiful  array, 
As  to  a  banquet  gathering,  at  the  sound 
Of  Persia's  clarion  ? — Far  and  joyous  round. 


THE  LAST  CONSTANT/KB.  285 


From  the  pine-forests,  and  the  mountain-snows. 
And  the  low  sylvan  valleys,  to  the  bound 
Of  the  bright  waves,  at  freedom's  voice  they  rose ! 
Hath  it  no  thrilling  tone  to  break  the  tomb's  repose? 


They  slumber  with  their  swords  ! — The  olive  shades 

In  vain  are  whispering  their  immortal  tale  ! 

In  vain  the  spirit  of  the  past  pervades 

The  soft  winds,  breathing  through  each  Grecian  vale. 

— Yet  must  Thou  wake,  though  all  unarmed  and  pale, 

Devoted  City! — Lot  the  Moslem's  spear. 

Red  trom  its  vintage,  at  thy  gates ;  his  sail 

Upon  thy  waves,  his  trumpet  in  thine  eai  I 

Awake !  and  summon  those,  who  yet,  perchance,  may  heart 


Be  hushed,  thou  faint  and  feeble  voice  of  weeping : 
Lift  ye  the  banner  of  the  Cross  on  high, 
And  call  on  chiefs,  whose  noble  sires  are  sleeping 
In  their  proud  graves  of  sainted  chivalry, 
Beneath  the  palms  and  cedars,  where  they  sigh 
To  Syrian  gales  ! — The  sons  of  each  brave  line, 
From  their  baronial  halls  shall  hear  your  cry, 
And  seize  the  arms  which  flashed  round  Salem's  shrine, 
And  wield  for  you  the  swords  once  waved  for  Palestine  ! 

x. 

All  still,  all  voiceless! — and  the  billow's  roar 
Alone  replies! — Alike  their  soul  is  gone 
Who  shared  the  funeral  feast  on  CEta's  shore, 
And  theirs  that  o'er  the  field  of  Ascalon 
Swelled  the  crusader's  hvmn  !  Then  gird  thou  on 
Thine  armor,  Eastern  Queen  !  and  meet  the  hour 
Which  waits  thee  ere  the  day's  fierce  work  is  done 
With  a  strong  heart ;  so  may  thy  helmet  tower 
Unshivered  through  the  storm,  for  generous  hope  is  power ! 


But  linger  not, — array  thy  men  of  might ! 
The  shores,  the  seas,  are  peopled  with  thy  foes. 
Arms  through  thy  cypress  groves  me  gleaming  bright. 
And  the  dark  huntsmen  of  the  wild,  repose 
Beneath  the  shadowy  marble  porticoes 
Of  thy  proud  villas.     Nearer  and  more  near. 
Around  thy  walls  the  sons  of  battle  close ; 
Eacli  hour,  each  moment,  hath  its  sound  of  fear, 
Which  the  deep  grave  alone  is  chartered  not  to  hear ! 


286  THE  LAST  CONSTANT! .VE. 


Away  !  bring  wine,  bring  odors,  to  the  shade 
Where  the  tall  pine  and  poplar  blend  on  high ! 
Bring  roses,  exquisite,  but  soon  to  fade ! 
Snatch  every  brief  delight, — since  we  must  die  ! — 
Yet  is  the  hour,  degenerate  Greeks  !  gone  by, 
For  feast  in  vine-wreathed  bower,  or  pillared  hall ; 
Dim  gleams  the  torch  beneath  yon  fiery  sky, 
And  deep  and  hollow  is  the  tambour's  cail, 
And  from  the  startled  hand  the  untastecl  cup  will  fall 

XIII 

The  night — the  glorious  oriental  night, 
Hath  lost  the  silence  of  her  purple  heaven, 
With  its  clear  stars!  the  red  artillery's  light, 
Athwart  her  worlds  of  tranquil  splendor  driven, 
To  the  still  firmament's  expanse  hath  given 
Its  own  fierce  glare,  wherein  each  cliff  and  tower 
Starts  wildly  forth  ;  and  now  the  air  is  riven 
With  thunder-bursts,  and  now  dull  smoke-clouds  lowei; 
Veiling  the  gentle  moon,  in  her  most  hallowed  hour. 


Sounds  from  the  waters,  sounds  upon  tlie  earth, 
Sounds  in  the  air,  of  battle !     Yet  with  these 
A  voice  is  mingling,  whose  deep  tones  give  birth 
To  Faith  and  Courage  !     From  luxurious  ease 
A  gallant  few  have  started  !     O'er  the  seas, 
From  the  Seven  Towers,  their  banner  waves  its  sign, 
And  Hope  is  whispering  in  the  joyous  breeze. 
Which  plays  amidst  its  folds.     That  voice  was  thine; 
TTiy  soul  was  on  that  band,  devoted  Constantine. 


Was  Rome  thy  parent  ?     Didst  thou  catch  from  her 
The  fire  that  lives  in  thine  undaunted  eye? 
— That  city  of  the  throne  and  sepulchre 
Hath  given  proud  lessons  how  to  reign  and  die! 
Heir  of  the  Caesars!  did  that  lineage  high, 
Which,  as  a  triumph  to  the  grave,  hath  passed, 
With  its  long  march  of  sceptred  imagery, 
The  heroic  mantle  o'er  thy  spirit  cast  ? 
-Thou!  of  an  eagle-race  the  noblest  and  the  last! 

XVI. 

Vain  dreams  !  upon  that  spirit  hath  descended 
Light  from  the  living  Fountain,  whence  each  thought 
Springs  pure  and  holy !  in  that  eye  is  blended 
A  spark,  with  Earth's  triumphal  memories  fraught, 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE.  281 


And,  far  within  a  deeper  meaning,  caught 
From  worlds  unseen.     A  hope,  a  lofty  trust, 
Whose  resting-place  on  buoyant  wing  is  sought 
(Though  through  its  veil,  seen  darkly  from  the  dust), 
In  realms  where  Time  no  more  hath  power  upon  the  just 


Those  were  proud  days,  when  on  the  battle  plain 
And  in  the  sun's  bright  face,  and  'midst  the  array 
Of  awe-struck  hosts,  and  circled  by  the  slain, 
The  Roman  cast  his  glittering  mail  away, 
And  while  a  silence,  as  of  midnight,  lay 
O'er  breathless  thousands  at  his  voice  who  started, 
Called  on  the  unseen,  terrific  powers  that  sway 
The  heights,  the  depths,  the  shades ;  then,  fearless-hearted, 
Girt  on  his  robe  of  death,  and  for  the  grave  departed  ! 

XVIII. 

But  then,  around  him  as  the  javelins  rushed, 
From  earth  to  heaven  swelled  up  the  loud  acclaim : 
And,  ere  his  heart's  last  free  libation  gushed, 
With  a  bright  smile  the  warrior  caught  his  name 
Far  floating  on  the  winds !     And  Victory  came. 
And  made  the  hour  of  that  immortal  deed 
A  life,  in  fiery  feeling  !     Valor's  aim 
Had  sought  no  loftier  guerdon.     Thus  to  bleed, 
Was  to  be  Rome's  high  star ! — He  died — and  had  his  meed. 

XIX. 

But  praise — and  dearer,  holier  praise,  be  theirs. 
"Who,  in  the  stillness  and  the  solitude 
Of  hearts  pressed  earthwards  by  a  weight  of  cares, 
Uncheered  by  Fame's  proud  hope,  the  ethereal  food 
Of  restless  energies,  and  only  viewed 
By  Him  whose  eye,  from  his  eternal  throne, 
Is  on  the  soul's  dark  places  ;  have  subdued 
And  vowed  themselves  with  strength  tii    then  unknown 
To  some  high  martyr-task,  in  secret  and  alone. 

xx. 

Theirs  be  the  bright  and  sacred  names,  enshrined 
Far  in  the  bosom  !  for  their  deeds  belong, 
Not  to  the  gorgeous  faith  which  charmed  mankind 
With  its  rich  pomp  of  festival  and  song, 
Garland,  and  shrine,  and  incense-bearing  throng ; 
But  to  that  Spirit,  hallowing,  as  it  tries 
Man's  hidden  soul  in  whispers,  yet  more  strong 
Than  storm  or  earthquake's  voice  ;  for  theme  arise 
All  that  mysterious  world's  unseen  sublimities, 


388  THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


xxr. 

Well  might  thy  name,  brave  Constantine !  awake 
Such  thought,  such  feeling! — But  the  scene  again 
Burst  on  my  vision,  as  the  day-beams  break 
Through  the  red  sulphurous  mists  :  the  camp,  the  plain, 
The  terraced  palaces,  the  dome-capt  fane, 
With  its  bright  cross  fixed  high  in  crowning  grace; 
Spears  on  the  ramparts,  galleys  on  the  main, 
And,  circling  all  with  arms,  that  turbaned  race, 
The  sun,  the  desert,  stamped  in  each  dark  haughty  face 

XXII. 

Shout,  ye  seven  hills  !     Lo  !  Christian  pennons  streaming 
Red  o'er  the  waters  !     Hail,  deliverers,  hail ! 
Along  your  billowy  wake  the  radiance  gleaming 
Is  Hope's  own  smile  !     They  crowd  the  swelling  sail, 
On,  with  the  foam,  the  sunbeam  and  the  gale, 
Borne,  as  a  victor's  car !     The  batteries  pour 
Their  clouds  and  thunders  ;  but  the  rolling  veil 
Of  smoke  floats  up  the  exulting  winds  before  ! 
—And  oh  !  the  glorious  burst  of  that  bright  sea  and  shore  I 

XXIII. 

The  rocks,  waves,  ramparts,  Europe's,  Asia's  coast. 
All  thronged!  one  theatre  for  kingly  war ! 
A  monarch  girt  with  his  barbaric  host, 
Points  o'er  the  beach  his  flashing  scimitar  ! 
Dark  tribes  are  tossing  javelins  from  afar, 
Hands  waving  banners  o'er  each  battlement, 
Decks,  with  their  serried  gun*,  arrayed  to  bar 
^The  promised  aid  :  but  hark  !  a  shout  is  sent 
U\)  irom  the  noble  barks  ! — the  Moslem  line  is  rent! 

XXIV. 

On,  on  through  rushing  flame,  and  arrowy  shower, 
The  welcome  prows  have  cleft  their  rapid  way: 
And,  with  the  shadows  of  the  vesper  hour, 
Furled  their  white  sails,  and  anchored  in  the  bay. 
Then  were  the  streets  with  song  and  torch-fire  gay, 
Then  the  Greek  wines  flowed  mantling  in  the  light 
Of  (estal  halls — and  there  was  joy1 — ihe  ray 
Of  dying  eyes,  a  moment  wildly  bneht. 
The  sunset  of  the  soul,  ere  lost  to  mortal  sight  I 

XXV. 

For  vain  that  feeble  succor  !     Day  by  day 

The  imperial  towers  are  crumbling,  and  {he  sweep 

Of  the  vast  engines,  in  their  ceaseless  play, 

Comes  powerful,  as  when  Heaven  unbinds  the  deep ! 


THE  LAST  CUA'STAA  77JVE. 


—  Man's  heart  is  mightier  than  the  castled  steep, 
Y«u  will  it  sink  when  earthly  hope  is  fled  ; 
Man's  thoughts  work  darkly  in  such  hours,  and  sleep 
Flies  far:  and  in  tkeir  mien,  the  walls  who  tread, 
Things  by  the  brave  untold,  may  fearfully  be  read  ! 


It  was  a  sad  and  solemn  task,  to  hold 
Their  midnight-watch  on  that  beleaguered  wall ! 
As  the  sea-wave  beneath  the  bastions  rolled, 
A  sound  of  fate  was  in  its  rise  and  fall ; 
The  heavy  clouds  were  as  an  empire's  pall, 
The  giant  shadows  of  each  tower  and  fane 
Lay  like  the  graves  ;  a  low  mysterious  call 
Breathed  in  the  wind,  and,  from  the  tented  plain, 
A  voice  of  omens  rose  with  each  wild  martial  strain. 


For  they  might  catch  the  Arab  charger's  neighing, 
The  Thracian  drum,  the  Tartar's  drowsy  song  ; 
Might  almost  hear  the  soldan's  banner  swaying. 
The  watch-word  muttered  in  some  eastern  tongue. 
Then  flashed  the  gun's  terrific  light  along 
The  marble  streets,  all  stillness — not  repose, 
And  boding  thoughts  came  o'er  them,  dark  and  strong ; 
For  heaven,  earth,  air,  speak  auguries  to  those 
Who  see  their  numbered  hours  fast  pressing  to  the  close. 

xxviu. 

But  strength  is  from  the  mightiest !     There  is  one 
Still  in  the  breach,  and  on  the  rampart  seen, 
Whose  cheek  shows  paler  with  each  morning  sun, 
And  tells  in  silence,  how  the  night  hath  been, 
In  kingly  halls,  a  vigil  :  yet  serene 
The  ray  set  deep  within  his  thoughtful  eye; 
And  there  is  that  in  his  collected  mien. 
To  which  the  hearts  of  noble  men  reply, 
With  fires,  partaking  not  this  frame's  mortalityl 

XXIX. 

Yes!  call  it  not  of  lofty  minds  the  fate, 
To  pass  o'er  earth  in  brightness,  but  alone ; 
High  power  was  made  their  birthright,  to  create 
A  thousand  thoughts  responsive  to  their  own! 
A  thousand  echoes  of  their  spirit's  tone 
Start  into  life,  where'er  their  path  may  be, 
Still  following  fast ;  as  when  the  wind  hath  blown 
O'er  Indian  groves,  a  wanderer  wild  and  free. 
Kindling  and  bearing  flames  afar  from  tree  to  treel 


290  THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


And  it  is  thus  with  thee  !   thy  lot  is  cast 
On  evil  days,  thou  Caesar  !  yet  the  few 
That  set  their  generous  bosom  to  the  blast 
Which  rocks  thy  throne — the  fearless  and  the  true, 
Bear  hearts  wherein  thy  glance  can  still  renew 
The  free  devotion  of  the  years  gone  by, 
When  from  bright  dreams  the  ascendant  Roman  drew 
Enduring  strength  !     States  vanish — ages  fly — 
But  leave  one  task  unchanged — to  suffer  and  to  die  I 

XXXI 

These  are  our  nature's  heritage.     But  thou, 
The  crowned  with  empire  !  thou  wert  called  to  share 
A  cup  more  bftter.     On  thy  fevered  brow 
The  semblance  of  that  buoyant  hope  to  wear, 
Which  long  had  passed  away;  alone  to  bear 
The  rush  and  pressure  of  dark  thoughts,  that  came 
As  a  strong  billow  in  their  weight  of  care; 
And,  with  all  this,  to  smile  !  for  earth-born  frame 
These  are  stern  conflicts,  yet  they  pass,  unknown  to  fame! 


Her  glance  is  on  the  triumph,  on  the  field, 
On  the  red  scaffold ;  and  where'er,  in  sight 
Of  human  eyes,  the  human  soul  is  steeled 
To  deeds  that  seem  as  of  immortal  might, 
Yet  are  proud  nature's !    But  her  meteor-light 
Can  pierce  no  depths,  no  clouds ;  it  falls  not  where 
In  silence,  and  in  secret,  and  in  night, 
The  noble  heart  doth  wrestle  with  despair, 
And  rise  more  strong  than  death  from  its  unwitnessed  prayei; 


Men  have  been  firm  in  battle :  they  have  stood 
With  a  prevailing  hope  on  ravaged  plains, 
And  won  the  birthright  of  their  hearths  with  blood, 
And  died  rejoicing,  'midst  their  ancient  fanes, 
That  so  their  children,  undefiled  with  chains, 
Might  worship  there  in  peace.     But  they  that  stand 
When  not  a  beacon  o'er  the  wave  remains, 
Linked  but  to  perish  with  a  ruined  land, 
Where  Freedom  dies  with  them — call  these  a  martyr-band  1 


But  the  world  heeds  them  not.     Or  if,  perchance, 
Upon  their  strife  it  bend  a  careless  eye, 
It  is  but  as  the  Roman's  stoic  glance 
Fell  on  that  stage  where  man's  last  agony 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE.  291 

Was  made  his  sport,  who,  knowing  one  must  die, 
Recked  not  which  champion ;  but  prepared  the  strain, 
And  bound  the  bloody  wreath  of  victory, 
To  greet  the  conqueror,  while,  with  calm  disdain, 
The  vanquished  proudly  met  the  doom  he  met  in  vain. 

XXXV. 

The  hour  of  Fate  comes  on  !  and  it  is  fraught 
With  t'tis  of  Liberty,  that  now  the  need 
Is  past  to  veil  the  brow  of  anxious  thought, 
And  clothe  the  heart,  which  still  beneath  must  bleed, 
With  Hope's  fair-seeming  drapery.     We  are  freed 
From  tasks  like  these  by  misery ;  one  alone 
Is  left  the  brave,  and  rest  shall  be  thy  meed, 
Prince,  watcher,  wearied  one !  when  thou  hast  shown 
Mow  brief  the  cloudy  space  which  parts  the  grave  and  throne 


The  signs  are  full.    They  are  not  in  the  sky, 
Nor  in  the  many  voices  of  the  air, 
Nor  the  swift  clouds.     No  fiery  hosts  on  high 
Toss  their  wild  spears  :  no  meteor-banners  glare, 
No  comet  fiercely  shakes  its  blazing  hair; 
And  yet  the  signs  are  full :  too  truly  seea 
In  the  thinned  ramparts,  in  the  pale  despair 
Which  lends  one  language  to  a  people's  mien, 
And  in  the  ruined  heaps  where  walls  and  towers  have  beeni 


It  is  a  night  of  beauty:  such  a  night 
As,  from  the  sparry  grot  or  laurel-shade, 
Or  wave  in  marbled  cavern  rippling  bright, 
Might  woo  the  nymphs  of  Grecian  fojint  and  glade 
To  sport  beneath  its  moonbeams,  which  pervade 
Their  forest-haunts  ;  a  night,  to  rove  alone 
Where  the  young  leaves  by  verr.al  winds  are  swayed, 
And  the  reeds  whisper,  with  a  dreamy  tone 
Of  melody,  that  seems  to  breathe  from  worlds  unknown; 


A  night,  to  call  from  green  Elysium's  bowers 
The  shades  of  elder  bards ;  a  night,  to  hold 
Unseen  communion  with  the  inspiring  powers 
That  made  deep  groves  their  dwelling-place  of  old; 
A  night,  for  mourners,  o'er  the  hallowed  mould, 
To  strew  sweet  flowers  ;  for  revellers  to  fill 
And  wreathe  the  cup;  for  sorrows  to  be  told 
Which  love  hr.th  cherished  long— vain  thoughts!  be  still! 
It  is  a  night  (if  rife,  stamped  with  Almighty  Will! 


292  THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


It  should  come  sweeping  in  the  storm,  and  rending 
The  ancient  summits  in  its  dread  career ! 
And  with  vast  billows  wrathfully  contending, 
And  with  dark  clouds  o'ershadowing  every  sphere ! 
But  He,  whose  footstep  shakes  the  earth  with  fear, 
Passing  to  lay  the  sovereign  cities  low, 
Alike  in  His  omnipotence  is  near, 
When  the  soft  winds  o'er  spring's  green  pathway  blow, 
And  when  His  thunders  cleave  the  monarch  mountain's  brow. 

XL. 

The  heavens  in  still  magnificence  look  down 
On  the  hushed  Bosphorus,  whose  ocean  stream 
Sleeps",  with  its  paler  stars  :  the  snowy  crown 
Of  far  Olympus,  in  the  moonlight-gleam 
Towers  radiantly,  as  when  the  Pagan's  dream 
Thronged  it  with  gods,  and  bent  the  adoring  knee! 
— But  that  is  past — and  now  the  One  Supreme 
Fills  not  alone  those  haunts ;  but  earth,  air,  sea, 
And  Time,  which  presses  on,  to  finish  His  decree. 

XLI. 

Olympus,  Ida,  Delphi !  ye,  the  thrones 
And  temples  of  a  visionary  night, 
Brooding  in  clouds  above  your  forest-zones, 
And  mantling  thence  the  realms  beneath  with  night: 
Ye  have  looked  down  on  battles !     Fear,  and  Flight, 
And  armed  Revenge,  all  hurrying  past  below  I 
But  there  is  yet  a  more  appalling  sight 
For  earth  prepared,  than  e'er,  with  tranquil  brow, 
Ye  gazed  on  from  ydur  world  of  solitude  and  snow! 

XLII. 

Last  night  a  sound  was  in  the  Moslem  camp, 
And  Asia's  hills  re-echoed  to  a  cry 
Of  savage  mirth ! — Wild  horn,  and  war-steeds'  tramp, 
Blent  with  the  shout  of  barbarous  revelry, 
The  clash  of  desert-spears !     Last  mght  the  sky 
A  hue  of  menace  and  of  wrath  put  on, 
Caught  from  red  watch-fires,  blazing  far  and  high, 
And  countless,  as  the  flames,  in  ages  gone, 
Streaming  to  heaven's  bright  queen  from  shadowy  Lebanon ! 


But  all  is  stillness  now.    May  this  be  sleep 

Which  wraps  those  eastern  thousands  ?    Yes,  perchance 

Along  yon  moonlit  shore  and  dark-blue  deep, 

Bright  are  their  visions  with  the  Houri's  glance, 


THE  LAST  CONSTANT1NE  293 

And  they  behold  the  sparkling  fountains  dance 
Beneath  the  bowers  of  paradise,  that  shed 
Rich  odors  o'er  the  faithful  ;  but  the  lance, 
The  bow,  the  spear,  now  round  the  slumberers  spread, 
Ere  fate  fulfil  such  dreams,  must  rest  beside  the  dead. 

XLIV. 

May  this  be  sleep,  this  hush  ? — A  sleepless  eye 
Doth  hold  its  vigil  'midst  that  dusky  race  ! 
One  that  would  scan  the  abyss  of  destiny, 
E'en  now  is  gazing  on  the  skies,  to  trace, 
In  those  bright  worlds,  the  burning  isles  of  space, 
Fate's  mystic  pathway  :  they  the  while,  serene, 
Walk  in  their  beauty ;  but  Mohammed's  face 
Kindles  beneath  their  aspect,  and  his  mien, 
All  fired  with  stormy  joy,  by  that  soft  light  is  seen. 

XLV. 

Oh  !  wild  presumption  of  a  conqueror's  dream, 
To  gaze  on  those  pure  altar-fires,  enshrined 
In  depths  of  blue  infinitude,  and  deem 
They  shine  to  guide  the  spoiler  of  mankind 
O'er  fields  of  blood  !     But  with  the  restless  mind 
It  hath  been  ever  thus,  and  they  that  weep 
For  worlds  to  conquer,  o'er  the  bounds  assigned 
To  human  search,  in  daring  pride  would  sweep, 
As  o'er  the  trampled  dust  wherein  they  soon  must  sleep. 


But  ye  !  that  beamed  on  Fate's  tremendous  "night, 
When  the  storm  burst  o'er  golden  Babylon, 
And  ye,  that  sparkled  with  your  wonte'd  light 
O'er  burning  Salem,  by  the  Roman  won; 
And  ye,  that  calmly  viewed  the  slaughter  done 
In  Rome's  own  streets,  when  Alaric's  trumpet-blast 
Rung  through  the  Capitol ;  bright  spheres  !  roll  on! 
Still  bright,  though  empire's  fall ;  and  bid  man  cast 
His  humbled  eyes  to  earth,  and  commune  with  the  past 

XLVII. 

For  it  hath  mighty  lessons  !  from  the  tomb, 
And  from  the  ruins  of  the  tomb,  and  where, 
'Midst  the  wrecked  cities  in  the  desert's  gloom, 
All  tameless  creatures  make  their  savage  lair, 
Thence  comes  its  voice,  that  shakes  the  midnight  air 
And  calls  up  clouds  to  dim  the  laughing  day, 
And  thrills  the  soul ;— yet  bids  us  not  despair, 
But  make  one  rock  our  shelter  and  our  stay, 
Beneath  whose  shade  all  else  is  passing  to  decay ! 


294  THE  LAST  COXSTAXTIXE. 


XLVIII. 

The  hours  move  on.     I  see  a  wavering  gleam 
O'er  the  hushed  waters  tremulously  fall, 
Poured  from  the  Caesar's  palace :  now  the  beam 
Of  many  lamps  is  brightening  in  the  hall, 
And  from  its  long  arcades  and  pillars  tall 
Soft  graceful  shadows  undulating  lie 
On  the  wave's  heaving  bosom,  and  recall 
A  thought  of  Venice,  with  her  moonlight  sky, 
And  festal  seas  and  domes,  and  fairy  pageantry. 


But  from  that  dwelling  floats  no  mirthful  sound! 
The  swell  of  flute  and  Grecian  lyre  no  more, 
Wafting  an  atmosphere  of  music  round, 
Tells  the  hushed  seaman,  gliding  past  the  shore, 
How  monarchs  revel  there  ! — Its  feasts  are  o'er — 
Why  gleam  the  lights  along  its  colonnade  ? 
— I  see  a  train  of  guests  in  silence  pour 
Through  its  long  avenues  of  terraced  shade, 
Whose  stately  founts  and  bowers  for  joy  alone  were  made  f 


In  silence,  and  in  arms  ! — With  helm — with  sword — 
These  are  no  marriage  garments  !     Yet  e'en  now 
Thy  nuptial  feast  should  grace  the  regal  board, 
Thy  Georgian  bride  should  wreath  her  lovely  brow 
With  an 'imperial  diadem  ! — but  thou, 
O  fated  prince !  art  called,  and  these  with  thee, 
To  darker  scenes ;  and  thou  hast  learned  to  bow 
Thine  Eastern  sceptre  to  the  dread  decree, 
And  count  it  joy  enough  to  perish — being  free  ! 

LI. 

On  through  long  vestibules,  with  solemn  tread 
As  men,  that  in  some  time  of  fear  and  woe, 
Bear  darkly  to  their  rest  the  noble  dead, 
O'er  whom  by  day  their  sorrows  may  not  flow. 
The  warriors  pass :  their  measured  steps  are  slow. 
And  hollow  echoes  fill  the  marble  halls, 
Whose  long-drawn  vistas  open  as  they  go 
In  desolate  pomp  ;  and  from  the  pictured  walls, 
Sad  seems  the  light  itself  which  on  their  armor  falls! 


And  they  have  reached  a  gorgeous  chamber,  bright 
With  all  we  dream  of  splendor  ;  yet  a  gloom  . 
Seems  gathered  o'er  it  to  the  boding  sight, 
A  shadow  that  anticipates  the  tomb  1 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE.  295 

Still  from  its  fretted  roof  the  lamps  illume 
A  purple  canopy,  a  golden  throne  ; 
But  it  is  empty  ! — hath  the  stroke  of  doom 
Fallen  there  already  ?     Where  is  He,  the  One, 
Born  that  high  seat  to  fill,  supremely  and  alone  ? 


Oh  !  there  are  times  whose  pressure  doth  efface 
Earth's  vain  distinctions  I — when  the  storm  beats  loud, 
When  the  strong  towers  are  tottering  to  their  base, 
And  the  streets  rock, — who  mingle  in  the  crowd  ? 
— Peasant  and  chief,  the  lowly  and  the  proud, 
Are  in  that  throng  !     Yes,  life  hath  many  an  hour 
Which  makes  us  kindred,  by  one  chastening  bowed, 
And  feeling  but,  as  from  the  storm  we  cower, 
What  shrinking  weakness  feels  before  unbounded  power  ! 


Yet  then  that  Power,  whose  dwelling  is  on  high. 
Its  loftiest  marvels  doth  reveal,  and  speak, 
In  the  deep  human  heart  more  gloriously, 
Than  in  the  bursting  thunder  ! — Thence  the  weak, 
They  that  seemed  formed,  as  flower-stems,  but  to  break 
With  the  first  wind,  have  risen  to  deeds,  whose  name 
Still  calls  up  thoughts  that  mantle  to  the  cheek, 
And  thrilj  the  pulse  ! — Ay,  strength  no  pangs  could  tame 
Hath  looked  from  woman's  eye  upon  the  sword  and  flame  I 

LV. 

And  this  of  such  hours  ! — That  throne  is  void, 
And  its  lord  comes  uncrowned.     Behold  him  stand, 
With  a  calm  brow,  where  woes  have  not  destroyed 
The  Greek's  heroic  beauty,  'midst  his  band, 
The  gathered  virtue  of  a  sinking  land. 
Alas !  how  scanty  ! — Now  is  cast  aside 
All  form  of  princely  state  ;  each  noble  hand 
Is  pressed  by  turns  in  his  :   for  earthly  pride 
There  is  no  room  in  hearts  where  earthly  hope  hath  died  J 


A  moment's  hush— and  then  he  speaks— he  speaks  I 
But  not  of  hope  !  that  dream  hath  long  gone  Lj  ' 
His  words  are  full  of  memory — as  he  seeks, 
By  the  strong  names  of  Rome  and  Liberty, 
Which  yet  are  living  powers  that  fire  the  eye, 
And  rouse  the  heart  of  manhood  ;  and  by  all 
The  sad  yet  grand  remembrances  that  lie 
Deep  with  earth's  buried  heroes  ;  to  recall 
The  soul  of  other  years,  if  but  to  grace  their  fall ! 


LVII. 

His  words  are  full  of  faith!  —And  thoughts,  more  high 
Than  Rome  e'er  knew,  now  fill  his  glance  with  light ; 
Thoughts  which  gave  nobler  lessons  how  to  die 
Than  e'er  were  drawn  from  Nature's  haughty  might ! 
And  to  that  eye,  with  all  the  spirit  bright, 
Have  theirs  replied  in  tears,  which  may  not  shame 
The  bravest  in  such  moments  ! — 'Tis  a  sight 
To  make  all  earthly  splendors  cold  and  tame, 
That  generous  burst  of  soul,  with  its  electric  flame ! 

LVIII. 

They  weep — those  champions  of  the  Cross — they  weep, 
Yet  vow  themselves  to  death  !     Ay,  'midst  that  train 
Are  martyrs,  privileged  in  tears  to  steep 
Their  lofty  sacrifice  !     The  pang  is  vain, 
And  yet  its  gush  of  sorrow  shall  not  stain 
A  warrior's  sword.     Those  men  are  strangers  here — 
The  homes  they  never  may  behold  again, 
Lie  far  away,  with  all  things  blest  and  dear, 
On  laughing  shores,  to  which  their  barks  no  more  shall  steer ! 


Knowest  thou  the  land  where  bloom  the  orange  bowers 
Where,  through  dark  foliage,  gleam  the  citron's  dyes? 
— It  is  their  own.     They  see  their  fathers  towers, 
'Midst  its  Hesperian  groves  in  sunlight  rise  : 
They  meet  in  soul,  the  bright  Italian  eyes, 
Which  long  and  vainly  shall  explor    the  main 
For  their  white  sails'  return  :  the  melodies 
Of  that  sweet  land  are  floating  o'er  their  brain — 
Oh !  what  a  crowded  world  one  moment  may  contain ! 


Such  moments  come  to  thousands ! — few  may  die 
Amidst  their  native  shades.     The  young,  the  brave 
The  beautiful,  whose  gladdening  voice  and  eye 
Made  summer  in  a  parent's  heart,  and  gave 
Light  to  their  peopled  homes ;  o'er  land  and  wave 
Are  scattered  fast  and  far,  as  rose-leaves  fall 
From  the  deserted  stem.     They  find  a  grave 
Far  from  the  shadow  ot  the  ancestral  hall, 
A  lonely  bed  is  theirs,  whose  smiles  were  hope  to  all ! 

LXI. 

But  life  flows  on,  and  bears  us  with  its  tide, 
Nor  may  we,  lingering,  by  the  slumberers  dwell, 
Though  they  were  those  once  blooming  at  our  side 
In  youth's  gay  home  !     Away !  what  sound's  deep  swell 


THE  LAST  COfrSTANTtttE  29? 

Comes  on  the  wind  ? — It  5s  an  empire's  knell, 
Slow,  sad,  majestic,  pealing  through  the  night! 
For  the  last  time  speaks  forth  the  solemn  bell, 
Which  calls  the  Christians  to  their  holiest  rite, 
With  a  funereal  voice  of  solitary  might. 


Again,  and  yet  again! — A  startling  power 
In  sounds  like  these  lives  ever;  for  they  bear, 
Full  on  remembrance,  each  eventful  hour, 
Checkering  life's  crowded  path.     They  fill  the  air 
When  conquerors  pass,  and  fearful  cities  wear 
A  mien  like  joy's  ;  and  when  young  brides  are  led 
From  their  paternal  homes  ;  and  when  the  glare 
Of  burning  streets  on  midnight's  cloud  waves  red. 
And  when  the  silent  house  receives  its  guest — the  dead. 


But  to  those  tones  what  thrilling  soul  was  given, 
On  that  last  night  of  empire  ! — As  a  spell 
Whereby  the  life-blood  to  its  source  is  driven, 
On  the  chilled  heart  of  multitudes  they  fell. 
Each  cadence  seemed  a  prophecy,  to  tell 
Of  sceptres  passing  from  their  line  away, 
An  angel-watcher's  long  and  sad  farewell, 
The  requiem  of  a  faith's  departing  sway, 
A  throne's,  a  nation's  dirge,  a  wail  for  earth's  decay. 

LXIV. 

Again,  and  yet  again  ! — from  yon  high  dome, 
Still  the  slow  peal  comes  awfully  ;  and  they 
Who  never  more,  to  rest  in  mortal  home, 
Shall  throw  the  breastplate  off  at  fall  of  day, 
The  imperial  band,  in  close  and  armed  array, 
As  men  that  from  the  sword  must  part  no  more. 
Take  through  the  midnight  streets  their  silent  way, 
Within  their  ancient  temple  to  adore, 
Ere  yet  its  thousand  years  of  Christian  pomp  are  o'er. 

LXV. 

It  is  the  hour  of  sleep  :  yet  few  the  eyes 
O'er  which  forgetful  ness  her  balm  hath  shed 
In  the  beleaguered  city.     Stillness  lies 
With  moonlight,  o'er  the  hills  and  waters  spread, 
But  not  the  less,  with  signs  and  sounds  of  dread, 
The  time  speeds  on.     No  voice  is  raised  to  greet 
The  last  brave  Constantine  ;  and  yet  the  tread 
Of  many  steps  is  in  the  echoing  street, 
And  pressure  of  pale  crowds,  scarce  conscious  why  they  meet. 


298  THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


LXVI. 

Their  homes  are  luxury's  yet :  why  pour  they  thence 
With  a  dim  terror  in  each  restless  eye  ? 
Hath  the  dread  car  which  bears  the  pestilence, 
In  darkness,  with  its  heavy  wheels  rolled  by, 
And  rocked  their  palaces,  as  if  on  high 
The  whirlwind  passed  ? — From  couch  and  joyous  board 
Hath  the  fierce  phantom  beckoned  them  to  die  ? 
— No  ! — what  are  these  ? — for  them  a  cup  is  poured 
More  dark  with  wrath  ; — Mar.  comes — the  spoiler  and  the  sword 


Still,  as  the  monarch  and  his  chieftains  pass 
Through  those  pale  throngs,  the  streaming  torch-light  throws 
On  some  wild  form,  amidst  the  living  mass, 
Hues,  deeply  red  like  lava's,  which  disclose 
What  countless  shapes  are  worn  by  mortal  woes  ! 
Lips  bloodless,  quivering  limbs,  hands  clasped  in  prayer, 
Starts,  tremblings,  hurryings,  tears  ;  all  outward  shows 
Betokening  inward  agonies,  were  there  : 
— Greeks!  Romans!  all  but  such  as  image  brave  despair! 


But  high  above  that  scene,  in  bright  repose, 
•   And  beauty  borrowing  from  the  torches'  gleams, 
A  mien  of  life,  yet  where  no  life-boat  flows, 
But  all  instinct  with  loftier  being  seems, 
Pale,  grand,  colossal ;  lo !  the  embodied  dreams 
Of  yore  ! — Gods,  heroes,  bards,  in  marble  wrought, 
Look  down,  as  powers,  upon  the  wild  extremes 
Of  mortal  passion  ! — Yet  'twas  man  that  caught, 
And  in  each  glorious  form  enshrined  immortal  thought! 


Stood  ye  not  thus  amidst  the  streets  of  Rome  ? 
That  Rome  which  witnessed,  in  her  sceptred  days, 
So  much  of  noble  death  ? — When  shrine  and  dome, 
'Midst  clouds  of  incense,  rung  with  choral  lays, 
As  the  long  triumph  passed,  with  all  its  blaze 
Of  regal  spoil,  were  ye  not  proudly  borne, 
O  sovereign  forms  ?  concentring  all  the  rays 
Of  the  soul's  lightnings  ? — did  ye  not  adorn 
The  pomp  which  earth  stood  still  to  gaze  on,  and  to  mourn  ? 

LXX. 

Hath  it  been  thus  ? — or  did  ye  grace  the  halls, 
Once  peopled  by  the  mighty  ?     Haply  there, 
In  your  still  grandeur,  from  the  pillared  walls 
Serene  ye  smiled  on  banquets  of  despair, 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE.  299 

Where  hopeless  courage  wrought  itself  to  dare 
The  stroke  of  its  deliverance,  'midst  the  glow 
Of  living  wreaths,  the  sighs  of  perfumed  air, 
The  sound  of  lyres,  the  flower-crowned  goblet's  flow  : 
—Behold  again ! — high  hearts  made  nobler  offerings  now  ! 

LXXI. 

The  stately  fane  is  reached— and  at  its  gate 
The  warriors  pause;  on  life's  tumultuous  tide 
A  stillness  falls,  while  he  whom  regal  state 
Hath  marked  from  all,  to  be  more  sternly  tried 
By  suffering,  speaks : — each  ruder  voice  hath  died, 
While  his  implores  forgiveness ! — '•  If  there  be 
One  'midst  your  throngs,  my  people  !  whom,  in  pride 
Or  passion,  I  have  wronged  ;  such  pardon,  free 
As  mortals  hope  from  Heaven,  accord  that  man  to  me !  " 


But  all  is  silence  ;  and  a  gush  of  tears 
Alone  replies  ! — He  hath  not  been  of  those 
Who,  feared  by  many,  pine  in  secret  fears 
Of  all ;  the  environed  but  by  slaves  and  foes, 
To  whom  day  brings  not  safety,  night  repose, 
For  they  have  heard  the  voice  cry,  "Sleep  no  more  !  " 
Of  them  he  hath  not  been,  nor  such  as  close 
Their  hearts  to  misery,  till  the  time  is  o'er, 
When  it  speaks  low  and  kneels  the  oppressor's  throne  before ! 

LXXIII. 

He  hath  been  loved — but  who  may  trust  the  love 
Of  a  degenerate  race  ? — in  other  mould 
Are  cast  the  free  and  lofty  hearts,  that  prove 
Their  faith  through  fiery  trials.     Yet  behold, 
And  call  him  not  forsaken; — thoughts  untold 
Have  lent  his  aspect  calmness,  and  his  tread 
Moves  firmly  to  the  shrine.     What  pomps  unfold 
Within  its  precincts  ! — Isles  and  seas  have  shed 
Their  gorgeous  treasures  there,  around  the  imperial  dead. 

LXXIV. 

'Tis  a  proud  vision — that  most  regal  pile 
Of  ancient  days !     The  lamps  are  streaming  bright 
From  its  rich  altar,  down  each  pillared  aisle, 
Whose  vista  fades  in  dimness  ;  but  the  sight 
Is  lost  in  splendors,  as  the  wavering  light 
Develops,  on  those  walls,  the  thousand  dyes 
Of  the  veined  marbles,  which  array  their  height, 
And  from  yon  dome,  the  lode-star  of  all  eyes, 
Pour  such  an  iris-glow  as  emulates  the  skies. 


30°  THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


But  gaze  thou  not  on  these  ;  though  heaven's  own  hues, 
In  their  soft  clouds  and  radiant  tracery  vie  ; 
Though  tints,  of  sun-born  glory,  may  suffuse 
Arch,  column,  rich  mosaic :  pass  thou  by 
The  stately  tombs,  where  eastern  Caesars  lie, 
Beneath  their  trophies ;  pause  not  here ;  for  know, 
A  deeper  source  of  all  sublimity 
Lives  in  man's  bosom,  than  the  world  can  show, 
In  nature  or  in  art — above,  around,  below. 


Turn  thou  to  mark  (though  tears  may  dim  thy  gaze) 
The  steel-clad  group  before  yon  altar-stone ; 
Heed  not  though  gems  and  gold  around  it  blaze ; 
Those  heads  unhelmed,  those  kneeling  forms  alone, 
Thus  bowed,  look  glorious  here.     The  light  is  thrown 
Full  from  the  shrine  on  one,  a  nation's  lord, 
A  sufferer ! — but  his  task  shall  soon  be  done — 
E'en  now,  as  Faith's  mysterious  cup  is  poured, 
See  to  that  noble  brow,  peace,  not  of  earth,  restored  1 

LXXVII. 

The  rite  is  o'er.     The  band  of  brethren  part, 
Once — and  but  once — to  meet  on  earth  again ! 
Each,  in  the  strength  of  a  collected  heart, 
To  dare  what  man  may  dare — and  know  'tis  vain  I 
The  rite  is  o'er :  and  thou,  majestic  fane  ! — 
The  glory  is  departed  from  thy  brow ! — 
Be  clothed  with  dust ! — the  Christian's  farewell  strain 
Hath  died  within  thy  walls ;  thy  Cross  must  bow; 
Thy  kingly  tombs  be  spoiled ;  thy  golden  shrines  laid  low  I 

LXXVIII. 

The  streets  grow  still  and  lonely — and  the  star, 
The  last  bright  lingerer  in  the  path  of  morn, 
Gleams  faint ;  and  in  the  very  lap  of  war, 
As  if  young  Hope  with  twilight's  ray  were  born, 
Awhile  the  city  sleeps  :  her  throngs,  o'erworn 
With  fears  and  watchings,  to  their  homes  retire ; 
Nor  is  the  balmy  air  of  dayspring  torn 
With  battle-sounds ;  the  winds  in  sighs  expire. 
And  quiet  broods  in  mists  that  veil  the  sunbeam's  fire. 


The  city  sleeps !—-ay!  on  the  combat's  eve,' 

And  by  the  scaffold's  brink,  and  'midst  the  swell 

Of  angry  seas,  hath  Nature  won  reprieve 

Thus  from  her  cares.     The  brave  have  slumbered  well, 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE.  301 


And  e'en  the  fearful,  in  theii  dungeon-cell, 
Chained  between  life  and  death  1 — Such  rest  be  thine, 
For  conflicts  wait  thee  still  I     Yet  who  can  tell 
In  that  brief  hour,  how  much  of  heaven  may  shine 
Full  on  thy  spirit's  dream  !— Sleep,  weary  Constantino. 


Doth  the  blast  rise  ? — the  clouded  east  is  red, 
As  if  a  storm  were  gathering  ;  and  I  hear 
What  seems  like  heavy  rain-drops,  or  the  tread, 
The  soft  and  smothered  step,  of  those  that  fear 
Surprise  from  ambushed  foes.     Hark  1  yet  more  near 
It  comes,  a  many-toned  and  mingled  sound  ; 
A  rustling,  as  of  winds,  where  boughs  are  sear, 
A  rolling,  as  of  wheels  that  shake  the  ground 
From  far  ;  a  heavy  rush,  like  seas  that  burst  their  bound! 

LXXXI. 

Wake,  wake  !     They  come  from  sea  and  shore,  ascending 
In  hosts  your  ramparts  !     Arm  ye  for  the  day ! 
Who  now  may  sleep  amidst  the  thunders  rending, 
Through  tower  and  wall,  a  path  for  their  array  ? 
Hark  !  how  the  trumpet  cheers  them  to  the  prey, 
With  its  wild  voice,  to  which  the  seas  reply, 
And  the  earth  rocks  beneath  their  engines  sway, 
And  the  far  hills  repeat  their  battle-cry. 
Till  that  fierce  tumult  seems  to  shake  the  vaulted  sky!, 

LXXXI  I. 

They  fail  not  now,  the  generous  band,  that  long 
Have  ranged  their  swords  around  a  falling  throne; 
Still  in  those  fearless  men  the  walls  are  strong, 
Hearts,  such  as  rescue  empires,  are  their  own ! 
— Shall  those  high  energies  be  vainly  shown! 
No  !  from  their  towers  the  invading  tide  is  driven 
Back,  like  the  Red-sea  waves,  when  God  had  blown 
With  His  strong  winds  !  the  dark-browed  ranks  are  rive* 
Shout,  warriors  of  the  cross  !— for  victory  is  of  Heaven  I 

LXXXIII. 

Stand  firm  !— Again  the  crescent  host  is  rushing, 
And  the  waves  foam,  as  on  the  galleys  sweep, 
With  all  their  fires  and  darts,  though  blood  is  gushing 
Fast  o'er  their  sides,  as  rivers  to  the  deep. 
Stand  firm  !— there  yet  is  hope,  the  ascent  is  steep, 
And  from  on  high  no  shaft  descends  in  vain ; 
—But  those  that  fall  swell  up  the  mangled  heap, 
In  the  red  moat,  the  dying  and  the  slain, 

o'er  that  fearful  bridge  the  assailants  mount  again! 


302  THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


Oh  !  the  dread  mingling,  in  that  awful  hour, 
Of  all  terrific  sounds  ! — the  savage  tone 
Of  the  wild  horn,  the  cannon's  peal,  the  shower 
Of  hissing  darts,  the  crash  of  walls  o'6rthrown, 
The  deep  dull  tambour's  beat — man's  voice  alone 
Is  there  unheard  !     Ye  may  not  catch  the  cry 
Of  trampled  thousands — prayer,  and  shriek,  and  moan, 
All  drowned,  as  that  fierce  hurricane  sweeps  by, 
Put  swell  the  unheeded  sum  earth  pays  for  victory ! 


War-clouds  have  wrapt  the  city! — through  their  dun, 
O'erloaded  canopy,  at  times  ablaze, 
As  of  an  angry  storm-presaging  sun, 
From  the  Greek  fire  shoots  up  ;  and  lightning  rays 
Flash,  from  the  shock  of  sabres,  through  the  haze, 
And  glancing  arrows  cleave  the  dusky  air  ! 
— Ay  !  this  is  in  the  compass  of  our  gaze, — 
But  fearful  things,  unknown,  untold,  are  there, 
Workings  of  wrath  and  death,  and  anguish,  and  despair  .' 


Woe,  shame  and  woe  ! — A  chief,  a  warrior  flies, 
A  red-cross  champion,  bleeding,  wild,  and  pale  ! 
— O  God  !  that  nature's  passing  agonies, 
Thus,  o'er  the  spark  which  dies  not,  should  prevail 
Yes  I  rend  the  arrow  from  thy  shattered  mail, 
And  stanch  the  blood-drops,  Genoa's  fallen  son  ! 
Fly  swifter  yet!  the  javelins  pour  as  hail ! 
— But  there  are  tortures  which  thou  canst  not  shun, 
The  spirit  is  their  prey — thy  pangs  are  but  begun  ! 

LXXXVII. 

Oh,  happy  in  their  homes,  the  noble  dead ! 
The  seal  is  set  on  their  majestic  fame  ; 
Earth  has  drunk  deep  the  generous  blood  they  shed, 
Fate  has  no  power  to  dim  their  stainless  name ! 
They  may  not,  in  one  bitter  moment,  shame 
Long  glorious  years;  from  many  a  lofty  stem 
Fall  graceful  flowers,- and  eagle 'hearts  grow  tame, 
And  stars  drop,  fading,  from  the  diadem  ; 
But  the  bright /<w/  is  theirs — there  is  no  change  for  them! 

LXXXVIII. 

Where  art  thou,  Constantine  ? — where  death  is  reaping 
His  sevenfold  harvest! — where  the  stormy  light, 
Fast  as  the  artillery's  thunderbolts  are  sweeping, 
Throws  meteor-bursts  o'er  battles  noonday-night 


THE  LAST  CO.\STA.\T1NE.  303 

Where  the  towers  rock  and  crumble  from  their  height, 
As  to  the  earthquake,  and  the  engines  ply, 
Like  red  Vesuvio ;  and  where  human  might 
Confronts  all  this,  and  still  brave  hearts  beat  high 
While  scimitars  ring  loud  on  shivering  panoply. 


Where  art  thou,  Constantine  ? — where  Christian  blood 
Hath  bathed  the  walls  in  torrents,  and  in  vain ! 
Where  faith  and  valor  ptn»li  in  the  flood, 
Whose  billows,  rising  o'er  their  bosoms,  gain 
Dark  strength  each  moment :  where  the  gallant  slain 
Around  the  banner  of  the  cross  lie  strewed, 
Thick  as  the  vine-leaves  on  the  autumnal  plain ; 
Where  all,  save  one  high  spirit,  is  subdued, 
And  through  the  breach  press  on  the  overwhelming  multitude. 


Now  is  he  battling  'midst  a  host  alone, 
As  the  last  cedar  stems  awhile  the  sway 
Of  mountain-storms,  whose  fury  hath  o'erthrown    . 
Its  forest-brethren  in  their  green  array ! 
And  he  hath  cast  his  purple  robe  away, 
With  its  imperial  bearings  ;  that  his  sword 
An  iron  ransom  from  the  chain  may  pay, 
And  win,  what  haply  fate  may  yet  accord, 
A  soldier's  death — the  all  now  left  an  empire's  lord! 

XCI. 

Search  for  him  now  where  bloodiest  lie  the  files 
Which  once  were  men,  the  faithful  and  the  brave  ? 
Search  for  him  now  where  loftiest  rise  the  piles 
Of  shattered  helms  and  shields,  which  could  not  save; 
And  crests  and  banners,  never  more  to  wave 
In  the  free  winds  of  heaven  !     He  is  of  those 
O'er  whom  the  host  may  rush,  the  tempest  rave, 
And  the  steeds  trample,  and  the  spearmen  close, 
Yet  wake  them  not  ! — so  deep  their  long  and  last  repose  ! 

XCII. 

Woe  to  the  vanouished ! — thus  it  hath  been  still 
Since  Time's  fir^t  march !— Hark,  hark,  a  people's  cry! 
Ay,  now  the  conquerors  in  the  streets  fulfil 
Their  task  of  wrath  !     In  vain  the  victims  fly; 
Hark !  now  each  piercing  tone  of  agony 
Blends  in  the  city's  shriek  !     The  lot  is  cast. 
Slaves,  'twas  your  choice  thus,  rather  thus,  to  die. 
Than  where  the  warrior's  blood  flows  warm  and  fast, 
And  roused  and  mighty  hearts  beat  proudly  to  the  lastt 


$04  THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


XCIII. 

Oh !  well  doth  freedom  battle  !     Men  have  made, 
E'en  midst  their  blazing  roofs,  a  noble  stand, 
And  on  the  floors,  where  once  their  children  played, 
And  by  the  hearths,  round  which  their  household  band 
At  evening  met ;  ay,  struggling  hand  to  hand, 
Within  the  very  chambers  of  their  sleep, 
There  have  they  taught  the  spoilers  of  the  land, 
In  chainless  hearts  what  fiery  strength  lies  deep, 
To  guard  free  homes  ! — but  ye  1 — kneel,  tremblers  !  kneel  and  weep  1 

xciv. 

'Tis  eve — the  storm  hath  died,  the  valiant  rest 
Low  on  their  shields  ;  the  day's  fierce  work  is  done, 
And  bloodstained  seas,  and  burning  towers  attest 
Its  fearful  deeds.     An  empire's  race  is  run ! 
Sad,  'midst  his  glory,  looks  the  parting  sun 
Upon  the  captive  city.     Hark  !  a  swell 
(Meet  to  proclaim  barbaric  war-fields  won) 
Of  fierce  triumphal  sounds,  that  wildly  tell 
The  Soldan  comes  within  the  Caesars'  halls  to  dwell  1 

xcv. 

Yes  !  with  the  peal  of  cymbal  and  of  gong, 
He  comes, — the  Moslem  treads  those  ancient  halls ! 
But  all  is  stillness  there,  as  death  had  long 
Been  lord  alone  within  those  gorgeous  walls. 
And  half  that  silence  of  the  grave  appals 
The  conqueror's  heart.     Ay,  thus  with  triumph's  hoar, 
Still  comes  the  boding  whisper,  which  recalls 
A  thought  of  those  impervious  clouds  that  lower 
O'er  grandeur's  path,  a  sense  of  some  far  mightier  Power  I 


"  The  owl  upon  Afrasiab's  towers  hath  sung 
Her  watch-song,  and  around  the  imperial  throne, 
The  spider  weaves  his  web ! "     Still  darkly  hung 
That  verse  of  omen,  as  a  prophet's  tone, 
O'er  his  flushed  spirit.     Years  on  years  have  flown 
To  prove  its  truth  :  kings  pile  their  domes  in  air 
That  the  coiled  snake  may  bask  on  sculptured  stone, 
And  nations  clear  the  forest,  to  prepare 
For  the  wild  fox  and  wolf  more  stately  dwellings  then*  I 


But  thou  !  that  on  thy  ramparts  proudly  dying 
As  a  crowned  leader  in  such  hours  should  die, 
Upon  thy  pyre  of  shivered  spears  art  lying, 
With  the  heaven's  o'er  thce  for  a  canopy, 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE.  305 


And  banners  for  thy  shroud  t  No  tear,  no  sigh, 
Shall  mingle  with  thy  dirge ;  for  thou  art  now 
Beyond  vicissitude  !     Lo  !  reared  on  high, 
The  Crescent  blazes,  while  the  Cross  must  bow: 
But  where  no  change  can  reach,  there,  Constantine,  art  thou  I 

XCVIII. 

"  After's  life's  fitful  fever  thou  sleepest  well  I " 
We  may  not  mourn  thee  !     Sceptred  chiefs,  from  whom 
The  earth  received  her  destiny,  and  fell 
Before  them  trembling — to  a  sterner  doom 
Have  oft  been  called.     For  them  the  dungeon's  gloom. 
With  its  cold  starless  midnight,  hath  been  made 
More  fearful  darkness,  where,  as  in  a  tomb, 
Without  a  tomb's  repose,  the  chain  hath  weighed 
Their  very  soul  to  dust,  with  each  high  power  decayed. 


Or  in  the  eye  of  thousands  they  have  stood, 
To  meet  the  stroke  of  death  ;  but  not  like  thee ! 
From  bonds  and  scaffolds  hath  appealed  their  blood, 
But  thou  didst  fall  unfettered,  armed,  and  free, 
And  kingly  to  the  last ! — And  if  it  be, 
That,  from  the  viewless  world,  whose  marvels  none 
Return  to  tell,  a  spirit's  eye  can  see 
The  things  of  earth  ;  still  mayest  thou  hail  the  sun, 
Which  o'er  thy  land  shall  dawn,  when  freedom's  fight  is  won  1 

c. 

And  the  hour  comes,  in  storm  !     A  light  is  glancing 
Far  through  the  forest-god's  Arcadian  shades  ! 
— 'Tis  not  the  moonbeam,  tremulously  dancing, 
Where  lone  Alpheus  bathes  his  haunted  glades 
A  murmur,  gathering  power,  the  air,  pervades, 
Round  dark  Cithseron,  and  by  Delphi's  steep  ; 
— 'Tis  not  the  song  and  lyre  of  Grecian  maids, 
Nor  pastoral  reed  that  lulls  the  vales  to  sleep, 
Nor  yet  the  rustling  pines,  nor  yet  the  sounding  deep  I 

Ci. 

Arms  glitter  on  the  mountains,  which,  of  old, 
Awoke  to  freedom's  first  heroic  strain, 
And  by  the  streams,  once  crimson,  as  they  rolled 
The  Persian  helm  and  standard  to  the  main ; 
And  the  blue  waves  of  Salamis  again 
Thrill  to  the  trumpet ;  and  the  tombs  reply, 
With  their  ten  thousand  echoes,  from  each  plain, 
Far  as  Plataea's,  where  the  mighty  lie, 
Who  crowned  so  proudly  there  the  bowl  of  liberty! 


LAST  COAST,  i. \TfNE. 


Cll. 

Brigh   land,  with  glory  mantled  o'er  by  song  f 
Land  of  the  vision-peopled  hills  and  streams, 
And  fountains,  whose  deserted  banks  along, 
Still  the  soft  air  with  inspiration  teems  ; 
Land  of  the  graves,  whose  dwellers  shall  be  themes 
To  verse  forever  ;  and  of  ruined  shrines, 
That  scarce  look  desolate  beneath  such  beams, 
As  bathe  in  gold  thine  ancient  rocks  and  pines  ? 
-When  shall  thy  sons  repose  in  peace  beneath  their  vines? 

cm. 

Thou  wert  not  made  for  bonds,  nor  shame,  nor  fear  I 

—Do  the  hoar  oaks  and  dark-green  laurels  wave 

O'er  Mantinea's  earth  ? — doth  Pindus  rear 

His  snows,  the  sunbeam,  and  the  storm  to  brave  ? 

And  is  there  yet  on  Marathon  a  grave  ? 

And  doth  Eurotas  lead  his  silvery  line 

By  Sparta's  ruin's  ? — And  shall  man,  a  slave, 

Bowed  to  the  dust,  amid  such  scenes  repine  ? 

If  e'er  a  soil  was  marked  for  freedom's  step,  'tis  thine  I 


Wash  from  that  soil  the  stains,  with  battle-showers ! 
— Beneath  Sophias  dome  the  Moslem  prays, 
The  crescent  gleams  amidst  the  olive-bowers, 
In  the  Comneni's  halls  the  Tartar  sways: 
But  not  for  long  ! — the  spirit  of  those  days, 
When  the  three  hundred  made  their  funeral  pile 
Of  Asia's  dead,  is  kindling,  like  the  rays 
Of  thy  rejoicing  sun,  when  first  his  smile 
Warms  the  Parnassian  rock,  and  gilds  the  Delian  isle. 


If  then  'tis  given  thee  to  arise  in  might, 
Trampling  the  scourge,  and  dashing  down  the  chain, 
'  Pure  be  thy  triumphs,  as  thy  name  is  bright ! 
The  cross  of  victory  should  not  know  a  stain ! 
So  may  that  faith  once  more  supremely  reign, 
Through  which  we  lift  our  spirits  from  the  dust! 
And  deem  not,  e'en  when  virtue  dies  in  vain, 
The  dies  forsaken  ;  but  repose  our  trust 
On  Him  whose  ways  are  dark,  unsearchable — but  just. 


GREEK  SUMGS.  307 


GREEK  SOXGS. 


I.— THE  STORM  OF  DELPHI.4 

FAR  through  the  Delphian  shades 

An  Eastern  trumpet  rung  ! 
And  the  startled  eagle  rushed  on  high ! 
With  a  sounding  flight  through  the  fiery  sky; 
And  banners,  o'er  the  shadowy  glades, 
To  the  sweeping  wind,  were  flung. 

Banners,  with  deep-red  gold 

All  waving  as  aflame, 

And  a  fitful  glance  from  the  bright  spear-head 
On  the  dim  wood-paths  of  the  mountain  shed 
And  a  peal  of  Asia's  war-notes  told 
That  in  arms  the  Persian  came. 

He  came  with  starry  gems 

On  his  quiver  and  his  crest ; 
With  starry  gems,  at  whose  heart  the  day 
Of  the  cloudless  orient  burning  lay, 
And  they  cast  a  gleam  on  the  laurel-stems, 
As  onward  his  thousands  pressed. 

But  a  gloom  fell  o'er  their  way, 
And  a  heavy  moan  went  by ! 
A  moan,  yet  not  like  the  wind's  low  swell, 
When  its  voice  grows  wild  amidst  cave  and  dell, 
But  a  mortal  murmur  of  dismay 
Or  a  warrior's  dying  sigh  ! 

A  gloom  fell  o'er  their  way ! 
TVas  not  the  shadow  cast 

By  the  dark  pine-boughs,  as  they  crossed  the  blue 
Of  the  Grecian  heavens  with  their  solemn  hue ; — 
The  air  was  filled  with  a  mightier  sway — 
But  on  the  spearmen  passed ! 

And  hollow  to  their  tread, 

Came  the  echoes  of  the  ground, 
And  banners  drooped,  as  with  dews  o'erborne, 
And  the  wailing  blast  of  the  bottle  horn 
Had  an  altered  cadence,  dull  and  dead, 
Cf  strange  foreboding  sound. 

1  f?ee  tbp  account  cited  from  Herodotus,  in  Nf'tford's 


GREEK  SONGS. 


But  they  blew  a  louder  strain, 

When  the  steep  defiles  were  passed  ! 
And  afar  the  crowned  Parnassus  rose. 
To  shine  through  heaven  with  his  radiant  snows, 
And  in  golden  light  the  Delphian  fane 
Before  them  stood  at  last ! 

In  golden  light  it  stood, 

'Midst  the  laurels  gleaming  lone, 
For  the  sun-god  yet,  with  a  lovely  smile, 
O'er  its  graceful  .pillars  looked  awhile, 
Though  the  stormy  shade  on  cliff  and  wood 
Grew  deep  round  its  mountain-throne. 

And  the  Persians  gave  a  shout ! 
But  the  marble-walls  replied, 
With  a  clash  of  steel  and  a  sullen  roar 
Like  heavy  wheels  on  the  ocean-shore, 
And  a  savage  trumpet's  note  pealed  out, 
Till  their  hearts  for  terror  died ! 

On  the  armor  of  the  god, 

Then  a  viewless  hand  was  laid  ; 
There  were  helm  and  spear,  with  a  clanging  din, 
And  corslet  brought  from  the  shrine  within, 
From  the  inmost  shrine  of  the  dread  abode 
And  before  its  front  arrayed. 

And  a  sudden  silence  fell 

Through  the  dim  and  loaded  air ! 
On  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  the  myrtle  spray. 
And  the  very  founts,  in  their  silvery  way, 
With  a  weight  of  sleep  came  down  the  spell, 
Till  man  grew  breathless  there. 

But  the  pause  was  broken  soon ! 

*Twas  not  by  song  or  Ivre  ; 
For  the  Delphian  maids  had  left  their  bowers, 
And  the  hearths  were  lone  in  the  city's  towers, 

But  there  burst  a  sound  through  the  misty  noon— 
That  battle-noon  of  fire  ? 

It  burst  from  earth  and  heaven ! 
It  rolled  from  crag  and  cloud  ! 
For  a  moment  of  the  mountain-blast, 
With  a  thousand  stormy  voices  passed, 
And  the  purple  gloom  of  the  sky  was  riven, 
When  the  thunder  pealed  aloud. 

And  the  lightnings  in  their  play 

Flashed  forth,  like  javelins  thrown; 
Like  sun-darts  winged  from  the  silver  bow, 
They  smote  the  spear  and  the  turbaned 


GREEK  SONGS.  30$ 

And  the  bright  gems  flew  from  the  crests  like  spray, 
And  the  banners  were  struck  down  i 

And  the  massy  oak-boughs  crashed 

To  the  fire-bolts  from  on  high, 

And  the  forest  lent  its  billowy  roar,  , 

While  the  glorious  tempest  onward  bore, 
And  lit  the  streams,  as  they  foamed  and  dashed, 
With  the  fierce  rain  sweeping  by. 

Then  rushed  the  Delphian  men 

On  the  pale  and  scattered  host ; 
Like  the  joyous  burst  of  a  flashing  wave, 
They  rushed  from  the  dim  Corycian  cave, 
And  the  sighing  blast  o'er  wood  and  glen 
Rolled  on,  with  the  spears  they  tossed. 

There  were  cries  of  wild  dismay, 

There  were  shouts  of  warrior  glee, 
There  were  savage  sounds  of  the  tempest's  mirth, 
That  shook  the  realm  of  their  eagle  birth ; 
'  But  the  mount  of  song,  when  they  died  away, 
Still  rose,  with  its  temple,  free  1 

And  the  Paean  swelled  ere  long, 

lo  Paean  !  from  the  fane ; 
lo  Paean  !  for  the  war  array, 
On  the  crowned  Parnassus  riven  that  day ! 
Thou  shall  rise  as  free,  thou  mount  of  song! 
With  thy  bounding  streams  again. 

i 

1    V 
I 


II.— THE  BOWL  OF  LIBERTY.1 

BEFORE  the  fiery  sun, 

The  sun  that  looks  on  Greece  with  cloudless  eye, 
In  the  free  air,  and  on  the  war-field  won, 
Our  fathers  crowned  the  Bowl  of  Liberty. 

Amidst  the  tombs  they  stood, 
The  tombs  of  heroes  !  with  the  solemn  skies, 
And  the  wide  plain  around,  where  patriot  Wood 
Had  steeped  the  soil  in  hues  of  sacrifice. 

They  called  the  glorious  dead, 
In  the  strong  faith  which  brings  the  viewless  nigh, 
And  poured  rich  odors  o'er  their  battle-bed, 
And  bade  them  to  their  rite  of  Liberty. 

1  This  and  the  following  piece  appeared  originally  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine. 


310  GREEK  SONGS. 


They  called  them  from  the  shades, 
The  golden-fruited  shades,  where  minstrels  tell 
How  softer  light  the  immortal  clime  pervades, 
•  And  music  floats  o'er  meads  of  Asphodel. 

Then  fast  the  bright  red  wine  1 
Flowed  to  their  names  who  taught  the  world  to  die 
And  made  the  land's  green  turf  a  living  shrine, 
Meet  for  the  wreath  and  Bowl  of  Liberty. 

So  the  rejoicing  earth 

Took  from  her  vines  again  the  blood  she  gave, 
And  richer  flowers  to  deck  the  tomb  drew  birth 
From  the  free  soil  thus  hallowed  to  the  brave. 

We  have  the  battle-fields, 
The  tombs,  the  names,  the  blue  majestic  sky, 
We  have  the  founts  the  purple  vintage  yields  ; 
— When  shall  we  crown  the  Bowl  of  Liberty  ? 


III.— THE  VOICE  OF  SCIO. 

A  VOICE  from  Scio's  isle, — 
A  voice  of  song,  a  voice  of  old 
Swept  far  as  cloud  or  billow  rolled, 

And  earth  was  hushed  the  while — 

The  souls  of  nations  woke  ! 
Where  lies  the  land,  whose  hills  among 
That  voice  of  victory  hath  not  wrung, 

As  if  a  trumpet  spoke  ? 

To  sky,  and  sea,  and  shore, 
Of  those  whose  blood,  on  Ilion's  plain, 
Swept  from  the  rivers  to  the  main, 

A  glorious  tale  it  bore. 

Still,  by  our  sun-bright  deep, 
With  all  the  fame  that  fiery  lay 
Threw  round  them,  in  its  rushing  way, 

The  sons  of  battle  sleep. 

And  kings  their  turf  have  crowned  ! 
And  pilgrims  o'er  the  foaming  wave 
Brought  garlands  there  :  so  rest  the  brave, 

Who  thus  their  bard  have  found  ! 

1  For  an  account  of  this  ceremony,  anciently  performed  in  commemoration  of  the  battle  of 
JMatza,  see  POTTER'S  Antiquities  of  Greece,  i.  389. 


GREEK  SONGS.  311 


A  voice  from  Scio's  isle, 
A  voice  as  deep  hath  risen  again 
As  far  shall  peal  its  thrilling  strain, 

Where'er  our  sun  may  smile  1 

Let  not  its  tones  expire  ! 
Such  power  to  waken  earth  and  heaven, 
And  might  and  vengeance  ne'er  was  given 

To  mortal  song  or  lyre  1 

Know  ye  not  whence  it  comes  ? 
— From  ruined  hearths,  from  burning  fanes, 
From  kindred  blood  on  yon  red  plains, 

From  desolated  homes  1 

'Tis  with  us  through  the  night! 
Tis  on  our  hills,  'tis  in  our  sky — 
Hear  it,  ye  heavens  !  when  swords  flash  high. 

O'er  the  mid- waves  of  fight ! 


IV.— THE  SPARTANS'  MARCH.1 


'TWAS  morn  upon  the  Grecian  hills, 
Where  peasants  dressed  the  vines; 

Sunlight  was  on  Cithaeron's  rills, 
Arcadia's  rocks  and  pines. 

And  brightly,  through  his  reeds  and  flowers, 

Eurotas  wandered  by, 
When  a  sound  arose  from  Sparta's  towers 

Of  solemn  harmony. 

Was  it  the  hunters'  choral  strain 
To  the  woodland-goddess  poured? 

Did  virgin  hands  in  Pallas'  fane' 
Strike  the  full-sounding  chord  ? 

But  helms  were  glancine  on  the  stream, 

Spears  ranged  in  close  array, 
And  shields  flung  back  a  glorious  beam 

To  the  morn  of  a  fearful  day  ! 


Originally  published  in  the  Edinburgh 


312  GREEK 

And  the  mountain-echoes  of  the  land 
Swelled  through  the  deep  blue  sky ; 

While  to  soft  strains  moved  forth  a  band 
Of  men  that  moved  to  die. 

They  marched  not  with  the  trumpet's  blast, 
Nor  bade  the  horn  peal  out, 

And  the  laurel  groves,  as  on  they  passed, 
Rung  with  no  battle  shout ! 

They  asked  no  clarion's  voice  to  fire 
Their  souls  with  an  impulse  high  ; 

But  the  Dorian  reed  and  the  Spartan  lyre 
For  the  sons  of  liberty ! 

And  still  sweet  flutes,  their  path  around, 
Sent  forth  jEolian  breath  ; 

They  needed  not  a  sterner  sound 
To  marshal  them  for  death  ! 

So  moved  they  calmly  to  their  field, 

Thence  never  to  return, 
Save  bearing  back  the  Spartan  shield, 

Or  on  it  proudly  borne ! 


V.— THE  URN  AND  SWORD. 

THEY  sought  for  treasures  in  the  tomb, 
Where  gentler  hands  were  wont  to  spread 
Fresh  boughs  and  flowers  of  purple  bloom, 
And  sunny  ringlets,  for  the  dead.1 

They  scattered  far  the  greensward  heap, 
Where  once  those  hands  the  bright  wine  poured ; 
— What  found  they  in  the  home  of  sleep  ? — 
A  mouldering  urn,  a  shivered  sword  ! 

An  urn,  which  held  the  dust  of  one 
Who  died  when  hearths  and  shrines  were  free ; 
A  sword,  whose  work  was  proudly  done 
Between  our  mountains  and  the  sea. 

And  these  are  treasures  ! — undismayed, 
Still  for  the  suffering  land  we  trust, 
Wherein  the  past  its  fame  hath  laid, 
With  freedom's  sword,  and  valor's  dust 


See  Potter's  Grecian  Antiouities,  \\.  234. 


ELYSIUM.  313 

VI.— THE  MYRTLE  BOUGH. 

STILL  green,  along  our  sunny  shore, 

The  flowering  myrtle  waves, 
As  when  its  fragrant  boughs  of  yore 

Were  offered  on  the  graves — 
The  graves,  wherein  our  mighty  men 

Had  rest,  unviolated  then. 

Still  green  it  waves  !  as  when  the  hearth 

Was  sacred  through  the  land; 
And  fearless  was  the  banquet's  mirth, 

And  free  the  minstrel's  hand  ; 
And  guests,  with  shining  myrtle  crowned, 
Sent  the  wreathed  lyre  and  wine-cup  round. 

Still  gre^n,  as  when  on  holy  ground 

The  tyrant's  blood  was  poured  : 
Forget  ye  not  what  garlands  bound 

The  young  deliverer's  sword ! 
Though  earth  may  shroud  Harmodius  now, 
We  still  have  sword  and  myrtle  bough  1 


ELYSIUM. 

M  In  the  Elysjum  of  the  ancients,  w«r  find  none  but  heroes  and  persons,  who  had  either  been  for. 
tunate  or  distinguished  on  earth  ;  the  children,  and  apparently  the  slaves  and  lower  classes, 
that  is  to  say,  Poverty,  Misfortune,  and  Innocence,  were  banished  to  the  Infernal  Regions." 
—CHATEAUBRIAND,  'Ghtie  du  C/iristianisme.] 

FAIR  wen  thou  in  the  dreams 
Of  elder  time,  thou  land  of  glorious  flowers 
And  summer  winds  and  low-toned  silvery  streams, 
Dim  with  the  shadows  of  thy  laurel  bowers, 

Where,  as  they  passed,  bright  hours 
Left  no  faint  sense  of  parting,  such  as  clings 
To  earthly  love,  and  joy  in  loveliest  things  1 

Fair  wert  thou,  with  the  light 
On  thy  blue  hills  and  sleepy  waters  cast,  . 
From  purple  skies  ne'er  deepening  into  night. 
Yet  soft,  as  if  each  moment  were  their  last 

Of  glory,  fading  fast 

Along  the  mountains  ! — but  thy  golden  day 
Was  not  as  those  that  warn  us  of  decay. 

And  ever,  through  thy  shades, 
A  swell  of  deep  JEolizn  sound  went  by, 
From  fountain-voices  in  their  secret  glades, 
And  low  reed-whispers,  making  sweet  reply 


314  ELYSIUM. 

To  summer's  breezy  sigh, 

And  young  leaves  trembling  to  the  wind's  light  breath, 
Which  ne'er  had  touched  them  with  a  hue  of  death ! 

And  the  transparent  sky 
Rung  as  a  dome,  all  thrilling  to  the  strain 
Of  harps  that,  'midst  the  woods,  made  harmony 
Solemn  and  sweet ;  yet  troubling  not  the  brain 

With  ditams  and  yearnings  vain, 
And  dim  remembrances,  that  still  draw  birth 
From  the  bewildering  music  of  the  earth. 

And  .who,  with  silent  tread, 
Moved  o'er  the  plains  of  waving  asphodel  ? 
Called  from  the  dim  procession  of  the  dead, 
Who,  'midst  the  shadowy  amaranth-bowers  might  dwell, 

And  listen  to  the  swell 
Of  those  majestic  hymn-notes,  and  inhale 
The  spirit  wandering  in  the  immortal  gale  ? 

They  of  the  sword,  whose  praise, 
With  the  bright  wine  at  nations'  feasts,  went  round  I 
They  of  the  lyre,  whose  unforgotten  lays 
Forth  on  the  winds  had  sent  their  mighty  sound, 

And  in  all  regions  found 

Their  echoes  'midst  the  mountains  ! — and  become 
In  man's  deep  heart  as  voices  of  his  home! 

They  of  the  daring  thought ! 
Daring  and  powerful,  yet  to  dust  allied — 
Whose  flight  through  stars,  and  seas,  and  depths,  had  sought 
The  soul's  far  birth-place — but  without  a  guide  ! 

Sages  and  seers,  who  died, 

And  left  the  world  their  high  mysterious  dreams, 
Born  'midst  the  olive  woods,  by  Grecian  streams. 

But  the  most  loved  are  they 
Of  whom  fame  speaks  not  with  her  clarion  voice, 
In  regal  halls! — the  shades  o'erhang  their  way, 
The  vale,  with  its  deep  fountains,  is  their  choice, 

And  gentle  hearts  rejoice 
Around  their  steps;   till  silently  they  die, 
As  a  stream  shrinks  from  summer's  burning  eye. 

And  these — of  whose  abode, 
'Midst  her  green  valleys,  earth  retained  no  trace, 
Save  a  flower  springing  from  their  burial-sod, 
A  shade  of  sadness  on  some  kindred  face, 

A  dim  and  vacant  place 

In  some  sweet  home ; — thou  hadst  no  wreaths  for  these, 
Thou  sunny  land  !  with  all  thy  deathless  trees  1 

The  peasant  at  his  door 
Might  sink  to  die  when  vintage  feasts  were  spread, 


ELYSITM.  3x5 

And  songs  on  every  wind  !     From  thy  bright  shore 
No  lovelier  vision  floated  round  his  head — 

Thou  wert  for  nobler  dead ! 

He  heard  the  bounding  steps  which  round  him  fell, 
And  sighed  to  bid  the  festal  sun  farewell ! 

The  slave,  whose  very  tears 
Were  a  forbidden  luxury,  and  whose  breast 
Kept  the  mute  woes  and  burning  thoughts  of  years, 
As  embers  in  a  burial-urn  compressed ; 

He  might  not  be  thy  guest ! 
No  gentle  breathings  from  thy  distant  sky 
Came  o'er  his  path,  and  whispered  "  Liberty !  " 

Calm,  on  its  leaf-strewn  bier, 
Unlike  a  gift  of  Nature  to  Decay, 
Too  rose-like  still,  too  beautiful,  too  dear, 
The  child  at  rest  before  the  mother  lay, 

E'en  so  to  pass  away, 

With  its  bright  smile  ! — Elysium  !  what  wert  thtnt 
To  her,  who  wept  o'er  that'young  slumberer's  brow? 

Thou  hadst  no  home,  green  land  ! 
For  the  fair  creature  from  her  bosom  gone, 
With  life's  fresh  flowers  just  opening  in  its  hand, 
And  all  the  lovely  thoughts  and  dreams  unknown 

Which,  in  its  clear  eye,  shone 

Like  spring's  first  wakening  !  but  that  light  was  past — 
Where  went  the  dewdrop  swept  before  the  blast  ? 

Not  where  thy  soft  winds  played, 
Not  where  thy  waters  lay  in  glassy  sleep ! 
Fade  with  thy  bowers,  thou  Land  of  visions,  fade  ! 
From  thee  no  voice  came  o'er  the  gloomy  deep, 

And  bade  man  cease  to  weep  ! 
Fade  with  the  amaranth  plain,  the  myrtle  grove, 
Which  could  not  yield  one  hope  to  sorrowing  love  !  * 

1  The  form  of  this  poem  was  a  good  deal  altered  by  Mrs.  Hemans  some  /ears  after  its  first 
publication,  and,  though  done  so  perhaps  to  advantage,  one  verse  was  omitted.  As  originally 
written,  the  two  following  stanzas  concluded  the  piece  : — 

For  the  most  loved  are  they 

Of  whom  Fame  speaks  not  with  her  clarion  voice, 
In  regal  halls!  the  shades  o'erhang  their  way. 
The  vale,  with  its  deep  fountains,  is  their  choice. 

And  gentle  hearts  rejoice 
Around  their  steps  ;  till  silently  they  die, 
As  a  stream  shrinks  from  summer's  burning  eye. 

And  the  world  knows  not  then, 
Not  then,  nor  ever,  what  pure  thoughts  are  fled ! 
Yet  these  are  they,  who  on  the  souls  of  men 
Come  back,  when  night  her  folding  veil  hath  spread. 

The  long-remembered  dead ! 
But  not  with  thee  might  aught  save  glory  dwell- 
Fade,  fade  away,  thou  shorp  of  asphodel ! 


316  THE  FUNERAL  GENIUS. 


THE  FUNERAL  GENIUS ; 

AN  ANCIENT  STATUE. 

["  Debout,  couronne  de  fleurs,  les  bras  e'leve's  et  pose's  sur  sa  tete,  et  le  dos  appuye'  centre  uf: 
pin,  ce  genie  semble  exprimer  par  son  attitude  le  repos  des  morts.  Les  bas-reliefs  des  torn- 
beaux  off  rent  souvent  des  figures  semblables."— VISCONTI,  Description  des  Antiques  du 
Afusee  Royal. 

THOU  shouldst  be  looked  on  when  the  starlight  falls 

Through  the  blue  stillness  of  the  summer-air, 

Not  by  the  torch-fire  wavering  on  the  walls — 

It  hath  too  fitful  and  too  wild  a  glare  ! 

And  thou  ! — thy  rest,  the  soft,  the  lovely,  seems 

To  ask  light  steps,  that  will  not  break  its  dreams. 

Flowers  are  upon  thy  brow  ;  for  so  the  dead 

Were  crowned  of  old,  with  pale  spring  flowers  like  these  : 

Sleep  on  thine  eye  hath  sunk  ;  yet  softly  shed, 

As  from  the  wing  of  some  faint  southern  breeze : 

And  the  pine-boughs  o'ershadow  thee  \.ith  gloom 

Which  of  the  grove  seems  breathing — not  the  tomb. 

They  feared  not  death,  whose  calm  and  gracious  thought 

Of  the  last  hour,  hath  settled  thus  in  thee  ! 

They  who  thy  wreath  of  pallid  roses  wrought, 

And  laid  thy  head  against  the  forest  tree, 

As  that  of  one,  by  music's  dreamy  close, 

On  the  wood  violets  lulled  to  deep  repose. 

They  feared  not  death ! — yet  whc  shall  say  his  touch 

Thus  lightly  fails  on  gentle  things  and  fair  ? 

Doth  he  bestow,  or  will  he  leave  so  much 

Of  tender  beauty  as  thy  features  wear  ? 

Thou  sleeper  of  the  bower  !  on  whose  young  eyes 

So  still  a  night,  a  night  of  summer,  lies  1 

Had  they  seen  aught  like  thee  ? — Did  some  fair  boy 
Thus,  with  his  graceful  hair,  before  them  rest? 
— His  graceful  hair,  no  more  to  wave  in  joy, 
But  drooping,  as  with  heavy  dews  oppressed: 
And  his  eye  veiled  so  softly  by  its  fringe, 
And  his  lip  faded  to  the  white- rose  tinge  ? 

Oh  !  happy,  if  to  them  the  one  dread  hour 
Made  known  its  lessons  from  a  brow  like  thine  I 
If  all  their  knowledge  of  the  spoiler's  power 
Came  by  a  look  so  tranquilly  divine  ! 
—Let  him,  who  thus  hath  seen  the  lovely  part, 
Hold  well  that  image  to  his  thoughtful  heart! 


THE  TOMBS  OF  PLA  T^A.  3 l  j 

But  thou,  fair  slumberer !  was  there  less  of  woe, 

Or  love,  or  terror,  in  the  days  of  old, 

That  men  poured  out  their  gladdening  spirit's  flow. 

Like  sunshine,  on  the  desolate  and  cold, 

And  gave  thy  semblance  to  the  shadowy  king, 

Who  for  deep  souls  had  then  a  deeper  sting  ? 

In  the  dark  bosom  of  the  earth  they  laid 
Far  more  than  we — for  loftier  faith  is  ours  ! 
Their  gems  were  lost  in  ashes — yet  they  made 
The  grave  a  place  of  beauty  and  of  flowers, 
"With  fragrant  wreaths,  and  summer  boughs  arrayed, 
And  lovely  sculptmre  gleaming  through  the  shade. 

Is  it  for  us  a  darker  gloom  to  shed 

O'er  its  dim  precincts  ? — do  we  not  intrust 

But  for  a  time,  its  chambers  with  our  dead. 

And  strew  immortal  seed  upon  the  dust  ? 

— Why  should  we  dwell  on  that  which  lies  beneath, 

When  living  light  hath  touched  the  brow  of  death  ? 


THE    TOMBS     OF     PLAT.EA. 

FROM  A   PAINTING   BY  WILLIAMS. 

AND  there  they  sleep  ! — the  men  who  stood 
In  arms  before  the  exulting  sun, 
And  bathed  their  spears  in  Persian  blood, 
And  taught  the  earth  how  freedom  might  be  won 

They  sleep  ! — the  Olympic  wreaths  are  dead, 
The  Athenian  lyres  are  hushed  and  gone; 
The  Dorian  voice  of  song  is  fled — 
Slumber,  ye  mighty  !  slumber  deeply  on. 

They  sleep,  and  seems  not  all  around 
As  hallowed  unto  glory's  tomb 
Silence  is  on  the  battle  ground, 
The  heavens  are  loaded  with  a  breathless  gloom. 

And  stars  are  watching  on  their  height, 
But  dimly  seen  through  mist  and  cloud, 
And  still  and  solemn  is  the  light 
Which  folds  the  plain,  as  with  a  glimmering  shroud 

And  thou,  pale  night-queen  !  here  thy  beams 
Are  not  as  those  the  shepherd  loves, 
Nor  look  they  clown  on  shining  streams, 
By  Naiads  haunted  in  their  laurel  groves; 


THE   VIEW  FROM  CASTRI. 


Thou  seest  no  pastoral  hamlet  sleep, 
In  shadowy  quiet,  'midst  its  vines  ; 
No  temple  gleaming  from  the  steep, 
'Midst  the  gray  olives,  or  the  mountain  pines: 

But  o'er  a  dim  and  boundless  waste, 
Thy  rays,  e'en  like  a  tomb-lamp's,  brood, 
Where  man's  departed  steps  are  traced 
But  by  his  dust,  amidst  the  solitude. 

And  be  it  thus  !  —  What  slave  shall  tread 
O'er  freedom's  ancient  battle-plains! 
Let  deserts  wrap  the  glorious  dead, 
When  their  bright  land  sits  weeping  o'er  her  chains: 

Here,  where  the  Persian  clarion  rung, 
And  where  the  Spartan  sword  flashed  high, 
And  where  the  paean  strains  were  sung, 
From  year  to  year  swelled  on  by  liberty  I 

Here  should  no  voice,  no  sound,  be  heard, 
Until  the  bonds  of  Greece  be  riven, 
Save  of  the  leader's  charging  word, 
Or  the  shrill  trumpet,  pealing  up  through  heaven! 

Rest  in  your  silent  homes,  ye  brave! 
No  vines  festoon  your  lonely  tree  !  t 
No  harvest  o'er  your  war-field  wave, 
Till  rushing  winds  proclaim—  the  land  is  free  ! 


THE  VIEW  FROM  CASTRI. 

FROM  A  PAINTING  BY  WILLIAMS. 

THERE  have  been  bright  and  glorious  pageants  here, 
Where  now  gray  stones  and  moss-grown  columns  lie ; 
There  have  been  words,  which  earth  grew  pale,  to  hear, 
Breathed  from  the  cavern's  misty  chambers  nigh : 
There  have  been  voices,  through  the  sunny  sky. 
And  the  pine-woods,  their  choral  hymn-notes  sending, 
And  reeds  and  lyres,  their  Dorian  melody, 
With  incense-clouds  around  the  temple  blending, 
And  throngs  with  laurel-boughs,  before  the  altar  bending. 

There  have  been  treasures  of  the  seas  and  isles 
Brought  to  the  day-god's  now-forsaken  throne ; 
Thunders  have  pealed  along  the  rock-defiles, 
When  the  far-echoing  battle-horn  made  known 

1  A  single  tree  appears  in  Mr,  WiUiams's  impressive  picture. 


THE  FESTAL  HOUR.  315 

That  foes  were  on  their  way ! — the  deep-wind's  moan 
Hath  chilled  the  invader's  heart  with  secret  fear, 
And  f'om  the  Sybil-grottoes,  wild  and  lone, 
Storms  have  gone  forth,  which,  in  their  fierce  career, 
From  his  bold  hand  have  struck  the  banner  and  the  spear. 

The  shrine  hath  sunk  ! — but  thou  unchanged  art  there  1 
Mount  of  the  voice  and  vision,  robed  with  dreams ! 
Unchanged,  and  rushing  through  the  radiant  air, 
With  thy  dark  waving  pines,  and  flashing  streams, 
And  all  thy  founts  of  song !  their  bright  course  teems 
With  inspiration  yet ;  and  each  dim  haze, 
Or  golden  cloucl  which  floats  around  thee,  seems 
As  with  its  mantle  veiling  from  our  gaze 
The  mysteries  of  the  past,  the  gods  of  elder  days ! 

Away,  vain  phantasies  ! — doth  less  of  power 
Dwell  round  thy  summit,  or  thy  cliffs  invest, 
Though  in  deep  stillness  now,  the  ruin's  flower 
Wave  o'er  the  pillars  mouldering  on  thy  breast ! 
— Lift  through  the  free  blue  heavens  thine  arrowy  crest! 
Let  the  great  rocks  their  solitude  regain! 
No  Delphian  lyres  now  break  thy  noontide  rest 
With  their  full'chords:— but  silent  be  the  strain  ! 
Thou  hast  a  mightier  voice  to  speak  the  Eternal's  reign !  * 


THE  FESTAL  HOUR. 

WHEN  are  the  lessons  given 

That  shake  the  startled  earth  ?     When  wakes  the  foe 
While  the  friend  sleeps  ?     When  falls  the  traitor's  blow  ? 

When  are  proud  sceptres  riven, 
High  hopes  o'erthrown  ? — It  is  when  lands  rejoice, 
When  cities  blaze  and  lift  the  exulting  voice, 
And  wave  their  banners  to  the  kindling  heaven! 

Fear  ye  the  festal  hour  ! 

When  mirth  o'erflows,  then  tremble !— Twas  a  night 
Of  gorgeous  revel,  wreaths,  and  dance,  and  light, 

When  through  the  regal  bower 
The  trumpet  pealed,  ere  yet  the  sqng  was  done, 
And  there  were  shrieks  in  golden  Babylon, 
And  trampling  armies,  ruthless  in  their  power. 

The  marble  shrines  were  crowned : 
Young  voices,  through  the  blue  Athenian  sky, 
And  Dorian  reeds,  made  summer  melody, 


1  This,  with  the  preceding,  and  several  of  the  following  pieces,  first  appeared  in  tho 
Magazine- 


320                                       THE  FESTAL  HOUR. 

And  censers  waved  around  ; 

And  lyres  were  strung,  and  bright  libations  pcured  ! 

When,  through  the  streets,  flashed  out  the  avenging  sword, 

Fearless  and  free,  the  sword  with  myrtles  bound  !  * 

Through  Rome  a  triumph  passed. 

Rich  in  her  sun-god's  mantling  beams  went  by 

That  long  array  of  glorious  pageantry, 

With  shout  and  trumpet-blast. 

An  empire's  gems  their  starry  splendor  shed 

O'er   he  proud  march  ;  a  king  in  chains  was  led; 

A  stately  victor,  crowned  and  robed,  .came  last.1 

And  many  a  Dryad's  bower 

Had  lent  the  laurels  which,  in  waving  play, 

Stirred  the  warm  air,  and  glistened  round  his  way. 

As  a  quick-flashing  shower. 

—  O'er  his  own  porch,  meantime,  the  cypress  hung  • 

Through  his  fair  halls  a  cry  of  anguish  rung  — 

Woe  for  the  dead  !  the  father's  broken  flower 

A  sound  of  lyre  and  song, 

In  the  still  night,  went  floating  o'er  the  Nile, 

Whose  waves,  by  many  an  old  mysterious  pile, 

Swept  with  that  voice  along  ; 

And  lamps  were  shining  o'er  the  red  wine's  foam 

Where  a  chief  revelled  in  a  monarch's  dome, 

And  fresh  rose-garlands  decked  a  glittering  throng. 

'Twas  Antony  that  bade 

The  joyous  chords  ring  out  !  —  but  strains  arose 

Of  wilder  omen  at  the  banquet's  close  ! 

Sounds,  by  no  mortal  made,3 

Shook  Alexandria  through  her  streets  that  night, 

And  passed  —  and  with  another  sunset's  light, 

The  kingly  Roman  on  his  bier  was  laid. 

Bright  'midst  its  vinevards  lay 

The  fair  Campanian  city,4  with  its  towers 

And  temples  gleaming  through  dark  olive-bowers, 

Clear  in  the  golden  day  -t 

Joy  was  around  it  as  the  glowing  sky  ;  N 

And  crowds  had  filled  its  halls  of  revelry, 

And  all  the  sunny  air  was  music's  way. 

1  The  sword  of  Harmodius. 

2  Paulus  yEmihus,  one  of  whose  sons  died  a  few  days  before,  and  another  shortly  after,  hi; 

triumph  on  the  conquest  of  Macedon,  when  Perseus,  king  of  that  country,  was  led  in  chains. 

3  See  the  description  given  by  Plutarch,  in  his  life  of  Antony,  of  the  supernatural 
neard  \n  the  streets  of  Alexandria,  the  night  before  Antony's  death. 

KNHKH 

4  Herculaneum  ;  of  which  it  is  related  that  all  the  inhabitants  were  assembled  in  the  t 

leatres 

when  the  shower  of  ashes  which  corered  the  city  descended. 

THE  FESTAL  HOUR. 


A  cloud  came  o'er  the  face 
Of  Italy's  rich  heaven  !  —  its  crystal  blue 
Was  changed,  and  deepened  to  a  wrathful  hut 

Of  night,  o'ershadowing  space, 
As  with  the  wings  of  death  !  —  in  all  his  power 
Vesuvius  woke,  and  hurled  the  burning  shower, 
And  who  could  tell  the  buried  city's  place? 

Such  things  have  been  of  yore, 
In  the  gay  regions  where  the  citrons  blow, 
And  purple  summers  all  their  sleepy  glow 

On  the  grape  clusters  pour; 
And  where  the  palms  to  spicy  winds  are  waving, 
Along  clear  seas  of  melting  sapphire,  laving, 
As  with  a  flow  of  light,  their  southern  shore. 

Turn  we  to  other  climes  !  — 
Far  in  the  Druid-Isle  a  feast  was  spread, 
'Midst  the  rock-altars  of  the  warrior  dead  :  * 

And  ancient  battle-rhymes 
Were  chanted  to  the  harp  ;  and  yellow  mead 
Went  flowing  round,  and  tales  of  martial  deed, 
And  lofty  songs  of  Britain's  elder  time  ; 

But,  ere  the  giant-fane 

Cast  its  broad  shadows  on  the  robe  of  even, 
Hushed  were  the  bards,  and  in  the  face  of  heaven, 

O'er  that  old  burial-plain 

Flashed  the  keen  Saxon  dagger  !  —  Blood  was  streaming 
Where  late  the  mead-cup  to  the  sun  was  gleaming, 
And  .Britain's  hearths  were  heaped  that  night  in  vain—- 

For they  returned  no  more  ! 

They  that  went  forth  at  morn,  with  reckless  heart, 
In  that  fierce  banquet's  mirth  to  bear  their  part  ; 

And,  on  the  rushy  floor, 

And  the  bright  spears  and  bucklers  of  the  walls, 
The  high-wood  fires  were  blazing  in  their  halls  ; 
But  not  for  them  —  they  slept  —  their  feast  was  o'er  1 

Fear  ye  the  festal  hour  ! 
Ay,  tremble  when  the  cup  of  joy  o'erflows! 
Tame  down  the  swelling  heart  !  —  the  bridal  rose, 

.  And  the  rich  myrtle's  flower 

Have  veiled  the  sword  !  —  Red  wines  have  sparkled  fast 
From  venomed  goblets,  and  soft  breezes  passed, 
With  fatal  perfume,  through  the  revel's  bower. 

Twine  the  young  glowing  wreath  ! 
But  pour  not  all  your  spirit  in  the  song, 
Which  through  the  sky's  deep  azure  floats  along, 

1  Stonehenj*e,  said  by  some  traditions  to  have  been  erected  to  the  memory  of  Ambrosiua,  ah 
•nrly  British  king  ;  and  by  others  mentioned  as  a  monumental  record  of  the  massacre  of  British 
Chiefs  here  alluded  to. 


322 


SONG  OF  THE  BATTLE  OF  MORCARTEN. 


Like  summer's  quickening  breath! 
The  ground  is  hollow  in  the  path  of  mirth: 
Oh  !  far  too  daring  seems  the  joy  of  earth, 
So  darkly  pressed  and  girdled  in  by  death  1 


SONG  OF  THE  BATTLE  OF  MORGARTEN. 


["  IN  the  year  1315,  Switzerland  was  invaded  by  Duke  Leopold  of  Austria,  with  a  formidable, 
army.  It  is  well  attested  that  this  prince  repeatedly  declared  '  he  would  trample  the  au- 
dacious rustics  under  his  feet ; '  and  that  he  had  procured  a  large  stock  of  cordage,  for  the 
purpose  of  binding  their  chiefs,  and  putting  them  to  death. 

"The  15111  October,  1315,  dawned.  The  sun  darted  its  first  rays  on  the  shields  and 
armor  of  the  advancing  host ;  and  this  being  the  first  army  ever  known  to  have  attempted  the 
frontiers  of  the  cantons,  the  Swiss  viewed  its  long  line  with  various  emotions.  Montfort  de 
Tettnang  led  the  cavalry  into  the  narrow  pass,  and  soon  filled  the  whole  space  between  the 
mountain  (Mount  Sattel)  and  the  lake.  The  fifty  men  on  the  eminence  (above  Morgartei.) 
raised  a  sudden  shout,  and  rolled  down  heaps  of  rocks  and  stones  among  the  crowded  ranks. 
The  confederates  on  the  mouirtain.  perceiving  the  impression  made  by  this  attack,  rushed 
down  in  close  array,  and  fell  upon  the  flank  of  the  disordered  column.  _With  massy  clubs 
they  dashed  in  pieces  the  armor  of  the  enemy,  and  dealt  their  blows  and'thrusts  with  long 
pikes.  The  narrowness  of  the  defile  admitted  of  no  evolutions,  and  a  slight  frost  having  in- 
jured the  road,  the  horses  were  impeded  in  all  their  motions  ;  many  leaped  into  the  lake  .  ail 
were  startled ;  and  at  last  the  whole  column  gave  way,  and  fell  suddenly  back  on  the  infantry, 
and  these  last,  as  the  nature  of  the  country  did  not  allow  them  to  open  their  files,  were  run 
•over  by  the  fugitives,  and  many  of  them  trampled  to  death.  A  general  rout  ensued,  and 
Duke  Leopold  was,  with  much  difficulty,  rescued  by  a  peasant,  who  led  him  to  Winterthur, 
where  the  historian  of  the  times  saw  him  arrive  in  the  evening,  pale,  sullen,  and  dismayed."— 
PLANTA'S  History  of  the  Helvetic  Confederacy.] 


THE  wine-month '  shone  in  its  golden 

prime, 

And  the  red  grapes  clustering  hung. 
But    a    deeper    sound,    through    the 

Switzer's  clime, 
Than  the  vintage  music,  rung. 

A  sound,  through  vaulted  caves, 
A  sound,  through  echoing  glen, 
Like  the  hollow  swell  of  a  rushing 
wave  ; 

— 'Twas  the  tread  of  steel-girt 
men. 

nd  a  trumpet,  pealing  wild  and  far, 
'Midst  the  ancient  rocks  was  blown, 
I'ill  the  Alps  replied  to  that  voice  of  war 
With  a  thousand  of  their  own. 
And  through  the  forest-glooms 
Flashed  helmets  to  the  day, 


And  the  winds  were  tossing  knightly 

plumes, 
Like  the  larch-boughs  in  their  play 

In   Hasli's2  wilds  there  was  gleaming 

steel, 

As  the  host  of  the  Austrian  passed, 
And  the  Schreckhorn's  3  rocks,  with  a 

savage  peal, 

Made  mirth  of  his  clarion's  blast. 
Up  'midst  the  Righi*  snows 
The  stormy  march  was  heard, 
With  the  charger's   tramp,  whence 

fire-sparks  rose. 

And  the  leader's  gathering  word 
But  a  band,  the  noblest  band  of  all, 

Through  the  rude  Morgarten  strait, 
With  blazoned  streamers  and  lances  tall, 
Moved  onwards  in  princely  state. 


J  Wine-montht  the  German  name  for  October. 
*  Hasli,  a  wild  district  in  the  canton  of  Berne. 

s  Sch-ocMinrn.  th»  prak  of  terror,  a  mountain  in  the  canton  of  Berne. 
!  :noiiitl.-.;n  in  the  cair.on  of  Schwyt*. 


SO  JVC  OF  THE  BATTLE  OF  MORGARTEN 


3-  • 
-o 


They  came  with  heavy  chains, 
For  the  race  despised  so  long — 
But  amidst  his  Alp-domains, 

The  herdsman's  arm  is  strong ! 

The  sun  was  reddening  the  clouds  of 

morn 

When  they  entered  the  rock-defile, 
iV.id  shrill  as  a  joyous  hunter's  horn 
Their  bugles  rung  the  while. 
Hut  on  the  misty  height, 
Where    the    mountain    people 

stood, 
Tlicre  was  stillness,  as  of  night, 

When  storms  at  distance  brood. 

There  was  stillness,  as  of  deep  dead 

night, 

And  a  pause — but  not  of  fear, 
While  the  Switzers  gazed  on  the  gath- 
ering might, 
OJ;  the  hostile  shield  and  spear. 

On  wound  those  columns  bright 
Between  the  lake  and  wood, 
But  they  looked  not  to  the   misty 

height 

"Where   the    mountain    people 
stood. 

The  pass  was  filled  with  their  serried 

power, 

All  helmed  and  mail-arrayed, 
And  their    steps   had  sounds   like  a 

thunder-shower 
In  the  rustling  forest-shade. 

There  were  prince  and  crested 

knight, 

Hemmed  in  by  cliff  and  flood, 
When  a  shout  arose  from  the  misty 

height 

Where    the    mountain    people 
stood. 

And  the  mighty  rocks  came  bounding 

down, 

Their  startled  foes  among, 
\Vith  a  joyous  whirl  from  the  summit 

thrown — 

— Oh  !  tne  herdsman's  arm  is  strong ! 
They  came  like  lauwine  '  hurled 


From  Alp  to  Alp  in  play, 
When  the  echoes  shout  through  the 

snowy  world, 
And  the  pines  are  borne  away. 

The  fir-woods   crashed  on  the  moun 

tain-side, 

And  the  Switzers  rushed  from  high, 
With  a  sudden  charge,  on  th«  flowei 

and  pride 

Of  the  Austrian  chivalry  : 
Like  hunters  of  the  deer, 
They  stormed  the  narrow  dell, 
And  first  in  the  shock,  with 


spear, 
Was  the  arm  of  William  Tell.* 

There  was  tumult  in  the  crowded  strait; 

And  a  ctv  of  wi!<j  dismay, 
And  many  a  warrior  met  his  fate 
From  a  peasant's  hand  that  day  ! 
And  the  empire's  banner  then 
From  its  place  of  waving  free, 
Went  down  before  the  shepherd-men, 
The  men  ot  the  Forest-sea.J 

With  their  pikes  and  massy  clubs  they 

brake 

The  cuirass  and  the  shield, 
And  the  war-horse  dashed  to  the  red- 

dening lake 
From  the  reapers  of  the  field  ! 

The  field—  but  not  of  sheaves  — 
Proud  crests  and  pennons  lay, 
Strewn  o'er  it  thick  as  the  birch-wood 
.  leaves, 
In  the  Autumn  tempest's  way. 

Oh  !   the  sun  in  heaven  fierce  havoc 

viewed, 

When  the  Austrian  turned  to  fly, 
And  the  brave,  in   the  trampling  mul- 

titude, 

Had  a  fearful  death  to  die  ! 
And  the  leader  of  the  war 
At  eve  unhelmed  was  seen, 
With  a  hurrying  step  on  the  wilds 

afar, 
And  a  pale  and  troubled  mien. 


1  Lnuwtnt.  the  Swiss  name  for  the  avalanche. 

»  William  Tell's  name  is  particularly  mentioned  amongst  the  confederates  at  Morgarten. 

•  ferest-sea,  the  lake  of  the  four  cantons  is  also  «o  called. 


324 


THE  CHIEFTAIN'S  SON. 


But  the  sons  of  the  land  which  the  free- 
man tills, 

Went  back  from  the  battle-toil, 
To  their  cabin  homes  'midst  the  deep 

green  hills, 
All  burdened  with  royal  spoil. 

There   were   songs    and    festal 

fires 

On  the  soaring  Alps  that  night, 
When  children  sprung  to  greet  their 

sires 
From  the  wild  Morgarten  fight. 


UN    A    FLOWER    FROM    THE 
FIELD  OF  GRUTLI. 

WHENCE  art  thou,  flower  ?     From  holy 
ground, 

Where  freedom's  foot  hath  been  ! 
Yet  bugle-blast  or  trumpet-sound 

Ne'er  shook  that  solemn  scene. 

Flower  of  a  noble  field  !  thy  birth 
Was  not  where  spears  have  crossed, 

And  shivered  helms  have  strewn  the 

earth, 
'Midst  banners  won  and  lost. 

But  where  the  sunny  hues  and  showers 

Unto  thy  cup  were  given, 
There   met   high   hearts  at  midnight 
hours, 

Pure  hands  were  raised  to  heaven ; 

And    vows  were    pledged    that  man 
should  roam 

Through  every  Alpine  dell 
Free  as  the  wind,  the  torrent's  foam, 

The  shaft  of  William  Tell. 

And    prayer,  the    full    deep   flow  of 

prayer, 

Hallowed  the  pastoral  sod ; 
And  souls  grew  strong  for  battle  there, 
Nerved  with  the  peace  of  God. 

Before  the  Alps  and  stars  they  knelt, 

That  calm  devoted  band, 
And  rose,  and  made  their  spirits  felt 

Through  all  the  mountain  land. 


Then      welcome     Griitli's     free  ;.orn 
flower ! 

Even  in  thy  pale  decay 
There  dwells  a  breath,  a  tone,  a  power, 

Which  all  high  thoughts  obey. 


ON  A  LEAF  FROM  THE  TOMB 
OF   VIRGIL. 

AND  was  thy  home,  pale  withered 
thing, 

Beneath  the  rich  blue  southern  sky  ? 

Wert  thou  a  nursling  of  the  spring, 
The  winds  and  suns  of  glorious  Italy  ? 

Those  suns  in  golden  light  e'en  now, 
Look  o'er  the  poet's  lovely  grave; 
Those  winds  are  breathing  soft,  but 

thou 

Answering  their  whisper,  there  no  more 
shalt  wave. 

Tne  flowers  o'er  Posilippo's  brow 
May  cluster  in  their  purple  bloom, 
But  on  the  o'ershadowing  ilex-bough, 

Thy  breezy  place  is  void  by  Virgil's 
tomb. 

Thy  place  is  void  ;  oh !  none  on  earth, 
This  crowded  earth,  may  so  remain, 
Save  that  which  souls  of  loftiest  birLi 

Leave  when  they  part,  their  brighter 
home  to  gain. 

Another  leaf,  ere  now,  hath  sprung 
On  the  green  stem  which  once  was 

thine ; 

When  shall  another  strain  be  sung 
Like  his  whose  dust  hath  made  that 
spot  a  shrine  ? 


THE   CHIEFTAIN'S   SON. 

YES,  it  is  ours  ! — the  field- is  won, 

A  dark  and  evil  field! 
Lift  from  the  ground  my  noble  son. 
And  bear  him  homewards  on  his  bloodv 

shield. 


ENGLAND'S  DEAD. 


3*5 


Let  me  not  hear  your  trumpets  ring, 

Swell  not  the  battle-horn  ! 
Thoughts  far  too  sad  those  notes  will 

bring, 

When  to  the  grave  my  glorious  flower 
is  borne  ! 

Speak  not  of  victory ! — in  the  name 
There  is  too  much  of  woe! 

flushed  be  the  empty  voice  of  Fame- 
Call  me  back  A  is  whose  graceful  head 
is  low. 

Speak  not  of  victory ! — from  my  halls 
The  sunny  hour  is  gone ! 

The  ancient  banner  on  my  walls, 
Must  sink  ere  long ;  I  had  but  him — 
but  one ! 

,     Within  the  dwelling  of  my  sires 
The  hearths  will  soon  be  cold, 
With  me  must  die  the  beacon-fires 
That  streamed  at  midnight  from  the 
mountain-hold. 

And  let  them  fade,  since  this  must  be, 
My  lovely  and  my  brave  ! 

Was  thy  bright  blood  poured  forth 

for  me  ? 

And  is  there  but  for  stately  youth  a 
grave  ? 

Speak  to  me  once  again,  my  boy  . 

Wilt  thou  not  hear  my  call ! 
Thou  wert  so  full  of  life  and  joy, 
I  had  not  dreamt  of  this — that  thou 
couldst  fall ! 

Thy  mother  watches  from  the  steep 
For  thy  returning  plume; 

How  shall  I  tell  her  that  thy  sleep 
I ;  of   the   silent   house,  the   untimely 
tomb  ? 

Thou  didst  not  seem  as  one  to  die, 

With  all  thy  young  renown  ! 
— Ye  saw  his  falchion's  flash  on  high, 
In  the  mid-fight,  when  spears  and  crests 
went  down ! 

Slow  be  your  march !  the  field  is  won  ! 

A  dark  and  evil  field  ! 
Lift  from  the  ground  my  noble  son, 
And  bear  him  homewards  on  his  bloody 
shield. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


REST  on  your  battle-fields,  ye  brave  ! 

Let  the  pines  murmur  o'er  your  grave, 

Your  dirge  be  in  the  moaning  wave — 

We  call  you  back  no  more  1 

Oh  !  there  was  mourning  when  ye  felt 
In  your  own  vales  a  deep-toned  knell, 
An  agony,  a  wild  farewell — 

But  that  hath  long  been  o'er. 

Rest  with  your  still  and  solemn  fame ; 
The  hills  keep  record  of  your  name, 
And  never  can  a  touch  of  shame 
Darken  the  buried  brow. 

But  we  on  changeful  days  are  cast, 
When  bright  names  from  their  plact 

fall  fast; 
And  ye  that  with  your  glory  passed, 

We  cannot  mourn  you  now. 


ENGLAND'S   DEAD. 

SON  of  the  Ocean  Isle ! 
Where  sleep  your  mighty  dead  i 
Show  me  what  high  and  stately  pile 
Is  reared  o'er  Glory's  bed. 

Go,  stranger  I  track  the  deep — 
Free,  free  the  white  sail  spread  I 
Wave  may  not  foam,  nor  wild  wino 

sweep, 
Where  rest  not  England's  dead. 

On  Egypt's  burning  plains, 
By  the  pyramid  o'erswayed, 
With  fearful  power  the  noonday  reigns, 
And    the    palm    trees    yield    no 
shade ; — 

But  let  the  angry  sun 
From  heaven  look  fiercely  red, 
Unfelt  by  those  whose  task  is  done! 
There  slumber  England's  dead. 

The  hurricane  hath  might 
Along  the  Indian  shore, 
And  far  by  Ganges'  banks  at  night 
Is  heard  the  tiger's  roar  ;— 


326 


THE  MEETING  Of  THE  BARDS. 


But  let  the  sound  roll  on 
It  hath  no  tone  of  dread 
For   those   that  from  their  toils   are 

gone,— 
There  slumber  England's  dead. 

Loud  rush  the  torrent-floods 
The  Western  wilds  among, 
And  free,  in  green  Columbia's  woods, 
The  hunter's  bow  is  strung ; — 

But  let  the  floods  rush  on  ! 
Let  the  arrow's  flight  be  sped  ! 
Why  should  They  reck  whose  task  is 

done  ? — 
There  slumber  England's  dead. 

The  mountain-storms  rise  high 
In  the  snowy  Pyrenees, 
And  tossed  the  pine-boughs  through 

the  sky 
Like  rose-leaves  on  the  breeze  ; — 

But  let  the  storm  rage  on  ! 
Let  the  fresh  wreaths  be  shed . 


For  the  Roncesvalles'  field  is  won, — 
There  slumber  England's  dead. 

On  the  frozen  deep's  repose 
'Tis  a  dark  and  dreadful  hour, 
When   round  the   ship    the   ice-fields 

close, 

And    the    northern    night-clouds 
lower ; — 

But  let  the  ice  drift  on  ! 
Let  the  cold-blue  desert  spread  ! 
Their   course   with,  mast   and   flag  is 

done — 
Even  there  sleep  England's  dead. 

The  warlike  of  the  isles, 
The  men  of  field  and  wave  ! 
Are  not  the  rocks  their  funeral  piles, 
The  seas  and  shores  their  grave  ? 

Go,  stranger  !  track  the  deep — 
Free,  free  the  white  sa*ls  spread  ! 
Wave  may  not  foam,  nor  wild  wind 

sweep, 
Where  rest  not  England's  dead. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BARDS. 


WRITTEN    FOR    AN    EISTEDDVOD,    OR   MEETING    OF    WELSH    BARDS,    HELD    IN 
LONDON,    MAY   22,   1&22. 

[The  Gorseddtiii,  or  meetings  of  the  British  bards,  were  anciently  ordained  to  be  held  in  the 
open  air,  on  some  conspicuous  situation,  whilst  the  sun  was  above  the  horizon  ;  or,  accord- 
ing to  the  expression  employed  on  these  occasions,  "  in  the  face  of  the  sun,  and  in  the  eye  of 
light."  The  places  set  apart  for  this  purpose  were  marked  out  by  a  circle  of  stones,  called 
the  circle  of  federation.  The  presiding  bard  stood  on  a  large  stone  (Naen  Gorsedd,  or  the 
stone  of  assembly)  in  the  centre.  The  sheathing  of  a  sword  upon  this  stone  was  the  cere- 
mony which  announced  the  opening  of  a  Gorsedd,  or  meeting.  The  bards  always  stood  in 
their  uni-colored  robes,  with  their  heads  and  feet  uncovered,  within  the  circle  of  federa 
ton. — See  OWEN'S  Translation  of  the  Heroic  Elegies  of  Llywarch  Hen. 

WHERF.  met  our  bards  of  old  ? — the  glorious  throng, 

They  of  the  mountain  and  the  battle  song  ? 

They  met — oh  !  not  in  kingly  hall  or  bower, 

But  where  wild  nature  girt  herself  with  power  : 

They  met  where  streams  flashed  bright  from  rocky  caves ; 

They  met  where  woods  made  moan  o'er  warrior's  graves, 

And  where  the  torrent's  rainbow  spray  was  cast, 

And  where  dark  lakes  were  heaving  to  the  blast. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BARDS.  327 

And  midst  the  eternal  cliffs,  whose  strength  defied 

The  crested  Roman,  in  his  hour  of  pride  ; 

And  where  the  Carnedd,1  on  its  lonely  hill, 

Bore  silent  record  of  the  mighty  still ; 

And  where  the  Druid's  ancient  Cromlech 2  frowned 

And  the  oaks  breathed  mysterious  murmurs  round. 

There  thronged  the  inspired  of  yore  ! — on  plain  or  heigh, 
/«  tht  sun's  face,  beneath  the  eye  of 'light ! 
And,  baring  unto  heaven  each  noble  head, 
Stood  in  the  circle,  where  none  else  might  tread. 
Well  might  their  lays  be  lofty  ! — soaring  thought 
From  nature's  presence  tenfold  grandeur  caught  : 
Well  might  bold  freedom's  soul  pervade  the  strains 
Which  startled  eagles  from  their  lone  domains, 
And,  like  a  breeze  in  chainless  triumph,  went 
Up  through  the  blue  resounding  firmament. 
Whence  came  the  echoes  to  those  numbers  high  ? 
Twns  from  the  battle-fields  of  days  gone  by, 
And  from  the  tombs  of  heroes,  laid  to  rest 
With  their  good  swords,  upon  the  mountain's  breast; 
And  from  the  watch-towers  on  the  heights  of  snow, 
Severed  by  cloud  and  storm  from  all  below  ; 
And  the  turf-mounds,3  once  girt  by  ruddy  spears, 
And  the  rock-altars  of  departed  years. 
— Thence,  deeply  mingling  with  the  torrent's  roar, 
The  winds  a  thousand  wild  responses  bore  ; 
And  the  green  land,  whose  every  vale  and  glen 
Doth  shrine  the  memory  of  heroic  men, 
On  all  her  hills  awakening  to  rejoice, 
Sent  forth  proud  answers  to  her  children's  voice. 

For  us,  not  ours  the  festival  to  hold, 
Midst  the  stone  circles,  hallowed  thus  of  old  ; 
Not  where  great  Nature's  majesty  and  might 
First  broke  all -glorious  on  our  infant  sigh  ; 
Not  near  the  tombs,  where  sleep  our  free  and  brave. 
Not  by  the  mountain-llyn,*  the  ocean-wave, 
Tn  these  late  days  we  meet — dark  Mona's  shore, 
Eryri's5  cliffs  resound  with  harps  no  more  ! 

But  as  the  stream  (though  time  or  art  may  turn 
The  current,  bursting  from  its  caverned  urn, 
From  Alpine  glens,  or  ancient  forest  bowers, 
To  bathe  soft  vales  of  pasture  and  of  flowers), 
Alike  in  rushing  strength  or  sunny  sleep. 
Holds  on  its  course,  to  mingle  with  the  deep ; 

1  Carnedd,  a  stone  barrow,  or  cairn. 

1  Cromlech,  a  Druidical  monument  or  altar.     The  word  means  a  stone  of  covenant. 
'The  ancient  British  chiefs  frequently  harangued  their  followers  from  small  artificial  mount* 
of  tirf. —  /'fnnnrtf. 
4  1.  yu,  a  la..c  o>  pool.  *  Eryri,  Snowdon. 


328  THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING. 


Thus,  though  our  paths  be  changed,  still  warm  and  free, 

Land  of  the  bard  !  our  spirit  flies  to  thee  ! 

To  thee  our  thoughts,  our  hopes,  our  hearts  belong, 

Our  dreams  are  haunted  by  thy  voice  of  song  I 

Nor  yield  our  souls  one  patriot-feeling  less 

To  the  green  memory  of  thy  loveliness, 

Than  theirs,  whose  harp-notes  pealed  from  every  height, 

Jn  the  tun's  fact;  beneath  the  eye  of  light ! 


T;HE  VOICE  OF  SPRING.* 

I  COME,  I  come !  ye  have  called  me  long — 
I  come  o'er  the  mountains  with  light  and  songt 
Ye  may  trace  my  step  o'er  the  wakening  earth, 
By  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet's  birth, 
By  the  primrose-stars  in  the  shadowy  grass, 
By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  I  pass. 

I  have  breathed  on  the  South,  and  the  chestnut  flowers 
By  thousands  have  burst  from  the  forest-bowers, 
And  the  ancient  graves  and  the  fallen  fanes 
Are  veiled  with  wreaths  on  Italian  plains  ; — 
But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom, 
To  speak  of  the  rum  or  the  tomb ! 

I  have  looked  on  the  hills  of  the  stormy  North, 

And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth, 

The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea, 

And  the  reindeer  bounds  o'er  the  pastures  free, 

And  the  pine  has  a  fringe  of  softer  green, 

And  the  moss  looks  bright  where  my  foot  hath  been. 

I  have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a  glowing  sigh, 
And  called  out  each  voice  of  the  deep  blue  sky  ; 
From  the  night-bird's  lay  through  the  starry  time, 
In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime, 
To  the  swan's  wild  note  by  the  Iceland  lakes, 
When  the  dark  fir-branch  into  verdure  breaks. 

From  the  streams  and  founts  I  have  loosed  the  chain, 
They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  main, 
They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain  brows 
They  are  flinging  spray  o'er  the  forest  boughs, 
They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves, 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves ! 

Come  forth,  O  ye  children  of  gladness  !  come ! 
Where  the  violets  lie  may  be  now  your  home. 

1  Originally  published  in  the  New  Monthly  Magasina. 


The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea.    Page  328. 


TffE  VOICE  Of  SPRING.  329 

Ye  of  the  rose-lip  and  dew-bright  eye, 
And  the  bounding  footstep  to  meet  me  fly 
With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  joyous  lay, 
Come  forth  to  the  sunshine — I  may  not  stay. 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  care-worn  men, 
The  waters  are  sparkling  in  grove  and  glen! 
Away  from  the  chamber  and  sullen  hearth, 
The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth! 
Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild-wood  strains, 
And  youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 

But  ye  ! — ye  are  changed  since  ye  met  me  last ! 
There  is  something  bright  from  your  features  passed ! 
There  is  that  come  over  your  brow  and  eye 
Which  speaks  of  a  world  where  the  flowers  must  die  I 
— Ye  smile  !  but  your  smile  hath  a  dimness  yet : 
Oh  !  what  have  you  looked  on  since  last  we 'met  ? 

Ye  are  changed,  ye  are  changed  ! — and  I  see  not  here 
All  whom  I  saw  in  the  vanished  year ! 
There  were  graceful  heads,  with  their  ringlets  bright, 
Which  tossed  in  the  breeze  with  a  play  of  light  ; 
There  were  eyes  in  whose  glistening  laughter  lay 
No  faint  remembrance  of  dull  decay  ! 

There  were  steps  that  flew  o'er  the  cowslip's  head, 

As  if  for  a  banquet  all  earth  were  spread  ; 

There  were  voices  that  rang  through  the  sapphire  sky, 

And  had  not  a  sound  of  mortality ! 

Are  they  gone ?  is  their  mirth  from  the  mountains  passed? — 

Ye  have  looked  on  death  since  ye  met  me  last  1 

I  knosv  whence  the  shadow  comes  o'er  you  now — 
Ye  have  strewn  the  dust  on  the  sunny  brow ! 
Ye  have  given  the  lovely  to  earth's  embrace — 
She  hath  taken  the  fairest  of  beauty's  race, 
With  their  laughing  eyes  and  their  festal  crown  : 
They  are  gone  from  amongst  you  in  silence  down  ! 

They  are  gone  from  amongst  you,  the  young  and  fair, 
Ye  have  lost  the  gleam  of  their  shining  hair ! 
But  I  know  of  a  land  where  there  falls  no  blight — 
I  shall  find  them  there,  with  their  eyes  of  light ! 
Where  Death  midst  the  blooms  of  the  morn  may  dwell, 
I  tarry  no  longer — farewell,  farewell  I 

The  summer  is  coming,  on  soft  winds  borne — 

Ye  may  press  the  grape,  yc  may  bind  the  corn  I 

For  me,  I  depart  to  a  brighter  shore — 

Ye  are  marked  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more ; 

I  go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell, 

And  the  flowers  are  not  Desth's — fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS 


LINES 

WRITTEN    IN   A   HERMITAGE    ON    THE 
SEASHORE. 

O  WANDERER  1    would  thy  heart  for- 
get 

Each  earthly  passion  and  regret, 
And  would  thy  wearied  spirit  rise 
To  commune  with  its  native  skies ; 
Pause  for  a  while,  and  deem  it  sweet 
To  linger  in  this  calm  retreat; 
And  give  thy  cares,  thy  griefs,  a  short 

suspense, 

Amidst  wild  scenes   of  lone  magnifi- 
cence. 

Unmixed  with  aught  of  meaner  tone, 
Here  nature's  voice  is  heard  alone  : 
When  the  loud  storm,  in  wrathful 

hour, 

Is  rushing  on  its  wing  of  power, 
And  spirits  of  the  deep  awake, 
And  surges  foam,  and  billows  break, 
And  rocks  and  ocean-caves  around, 
Reverberate  each  awful  sound; 
•That  mighty  voice,  with  all  its  dread 

control. 
To  loftiest   thought   shall    wake    thy 

thrilling  soul. 

But  when   no  more   the    sea-winds 

rave, 
When    peace    is    brooding    on    the 

wave, 

And  from  earth,  air,  and  ocean  rise 
No  sounds  but  plaintive  melodies  ; 
Soothed  by  their  softly  mingling 

swell, 

As  daylight  bids  the  world  farewell, 
The  rustling  wood,  the  dying  breeze, 
The  faint,  low  rippling  of  the  seas, 


A  tender  calm   shall   steal   upon  tky 

breast, 
A  gleam  reflected  from  the  realms  of 

rest. 

Is  thine  a  heart  the  world  hath  stung, 
Friends  have  deceived,  neglect  hath 

wrung  ? 
Hast  thou  some  grief  that  none  may 

know, 

Some  lonely,  secret,  silent  woe  ? 
Or  have  thy  fond  affections  fled 
From  earth,  to  slumber  with  the 

dead  ? — 

Oh !  pause  awhile — the  world  disown, 
And  dwell  with  nature's  self  alone  ! 
And  though  no  more  she  bids  arise 
Thy  soul's  departed  energies, 
And  though  thy  joy  of  life  is  o'er, 
Beyond  her  magic  to  restore  ; 
Yet  shall  her  spells  o'er  every  passion 

steal, 
And  soothe  the  wounded  heart  they 

cannot  heal. 


DIRGE  OF  A  CHILD. 

No  bitter  tears  for  thee  be  shed, 
Blossom  of  being !  seen  and  gone  ! 
With  flowers  alone  we  strew  thy  bed, 

O  blest  departed  One  ! 
Whose  all  of  life,  a  rosy  ray, 
Blushed  into  dawn  and  passed  away. 

Yes  !  thou  art  fled,  ere  guilt  had  power 
To  stain  thy  cherub-soul  and  form, 
Closed  is  the  soft  ephemeral  flower 

That  never  felt  a  storm  ! 
The    sunbeam's    smile,    the    zephyr's 

breath, 
All  that  it  knew  from  birth  to  death. 


INVOCATION. 


Thou  wert  so  like  a  form  of  light, 
That    heaven    benignly     called    thee 

hence, 
Ere  yet  the  world  could  breathe  one 

blight 

O'er  thy  sweet  innocence  : 
And  thou,  that  brighter  home  to  bless, 
Art  passed,  with  all  thy  loveliness  I 

Oh !    hadst    thou    still   on    earth    re- 
mained, 

Vision  of  beauty  I  fair,  as  brief ! 

How   soon   thy   brightness   had   been 

stained 
With  passion  or  with  grief  I 

Now  not  a  sullying  breath  can  rise, 

To  dim  thy  glory  in  the  skies. 

We  rear  no  marble  o'er  thy  tomb  ; 
No  sculptured  image  there  shall  mourn; 
Ah  !  fitter  far  the  vernal  bloom 

Such  dwelling  to  adorn. 
Fragrance,    and    flowers,    and    dews, 

must  be 
The  only  emblems  meet  for  thee. 

Thy  grave  shall  be  a  blessed  shrine, 
Adorned     with      Nature's      brightest 

wreath  ; 
Each  glowing  season  shall  combine 

Its  incense  there  to  breathe  ; 
And  oft,  upon  the  midnight  air, 
Shall  viewless    harps   be    murmuring 
.there. 

And  oh !  sometimes  in  visions  blest, 

Sweet  spirit !  visit  our  repose  ; 

And   bear,  from   thine   own  world   of 

rest, 

Some  balm  for  human  woes  ! 
SVhat  form  more  lovely  could  be  given 
Than  thine  to  messenger  of  heaven  ? 


INVOCATION. 

HUSHED  is  the  world  in  night  and 

sleep, 
Earth,    Sea,   and   Air,   are    still    as 

death  ; 

Too  rude  to  break  a  calm  so  deep, 
Were  music's  faintest  breath. 


Descend,  bright  visions!    from  aerial 

bowers, 
Descend  to  gild  your  own  soft,  silent 

hours. 

In  hope  or  fear,  in  toil  or  pain, 
The  weary  day  have  mortals  past ; 
Now,  dreams  of  bliss !  be  yours  to 

reign, 

And  all  your  spells  around  them  cast ; 
Steal  from  their  hearts  the  pang,  their 

eyes  the  tear, 
And  lift  the  veil  that  hides  a  brighter 
sphere. 

Oh  !  bear  your  softest  balm  to  those 

Who  fondly,  vainly,  mourn  the  dead, 

To  them  that  world  of  peace  disclose, 

Wrhere  the  bright  soul  is  fled: 
Where  Love,   immortal  in  his  native 

clime, 

Shall  fear  no  pang  from  fate,  no  blight 
from  time. 

Or  to  his  loved,  his  distant  land, 
On  your  light'wings  the  exile  bear 
To  feel  once  more  his  heart  expand, 
In  his  own  genial  mountain-air  ; 
Hear    the    wild     echoes'    well-known 

strains  repeat, 

And  bless  each  note,  as  Heaven's  own 
music  sweet. 

But  oh !  with  Fancy's  brightest  ray, 
Blest  dreams  !  the  bard's  repose  il- 
lume; 
Bid  forms  of  heaven  around  him  play, 

And  bowers  of  Eden  bloom  ! 
And  waft  his  spirit  to  its  native  skies 
Who  finds  no  charm  in  life's  realities. 

No  voice  is  on  the  air  of  night, 
Through  folded  leaves  no  murmui* 

creep, 
Nor  star  nor  moonbeam's  trembling 

light 

Falls  on  the  placid  brow  of  sleep. 
Descend,  bright   visions!    from    your 

airy  bower : 

Dark,  silent,  solemn,  is  vour  favorite 
hour. 


33* 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


TO  .THE  MEMORY  OF 

GENERAL  SIR  EDWARD 
PAKENHAM. 

BRAVE  spirit !  mourned  with  fond  re- 
gret, 

I.ost  in  life's  pr,ide,  in  valor's  noon, 
Oh  !  who  could  deem  thy  star  should 

set 
So  darkly  and  so  soon  1 

Fatal,  though  bright,  the  fire  of  mind 
Which  marked  and   closed   thy  brief 

career  ; 

And   the   fair   wreath,    by    Hope    en- 
twined, 

Lies  withered  on  thy  bier. 

The    seldier's    death    hath   been   thy 

doom, 

The  soldier's  tear  thy  meed  shall  be  ; 
Yet,  son  of  war  !  a  prouder  tomb 

Might  Fate  have  reared  for  thee. 

Thou  shouldst  have  died,  O  high-souled 

chief ! 

In  those  bright  days  of  glory  fled, 
When  triumph  so  prevailed  o'er  grief, 

We  scarce  could  mourn  the  dead. 

Noontide    of    fame !     each    tear-drop 

then 

Was  worthy  of  a  warrior's  grave: 
When  shall  affection  weep  again 

So  proudly  o'er  the  brave  ? 

There,  on  the  battle-fields  of  Spain, 
'Midst  Roncesvalles'  mountain-scene, 
Or  ort  Vittoria's  blood-red  plain, 
Meet  had  they  deathbed  been. 

We  mourn  not  that  a  hero's  life 
Thus  in  its  ardent  prime  should  close  ; 
Hadst  thou  but  fallen  in  nobler  strife, 
But  died  'midst  conquered  foes ! 

Yet  hast  thou  still    (though  victory's 

flame 

In  that  last  moment  cheered  thee  not) 
Left  Glory's  isle  another  name, 

That  ne'er  may  be  forgot : 


And  many  a  tale  of  triumph  won, 
Shall  breathe  that  name  in  Memory's 

ear, 
And  long  may  England  mourn  a  sou 

Without  reproach  or  fear. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OK 

SIR  HENRY  ELLIS, 

WHO  FELL  IN  THE  BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

"  Happy  are  they  who  die  in   youth,  when 
their  renown  is  around  them." — OSSIAN. 

WEEPST  thou  for  him,  whose   doom 

was  sealed 

On  England's  proudest  battle-field  ? 
For  him,  the  lion-heart,  who  died 
In  victory's  full  resistless  tide  ! 

Oh,  mourn  him  not ! 
By  deeds  like  his  that  field  was  won, 
And  Fate  could  yield  to  Valor's  son 

No  brighter  lot. 

He  heard  his  band's  exulting  cry, 
He  saw  the  vanquished  eagles  fly; 
And  envied  be  his  death  of  fame, 
It  shed  a  sunbeam  o'er  his  name 

That  naught  shall  dim  : 
No  cloud  obscured  his  glory's  day, 
It  saw  no  twilight  of  decay — 

Weep  not  for  him ! 

And  breathe  no  dirge's  plaintive  moan 

A  hero  claims  far  loftier  tone  ! 

Oh !     proudly    should     the    war-song 

swell, 
Recording  how  the  mighty  fell 

In  that  dread  hour. 
When     England,    'midst    the    battle 

storm — 
The  avenging  angel — reared  her  form 

In  tenfold  power. 

Yet,  gallant  heart !  to  swell  thy  praise 
Vain  were  the  minstrel's  noblest  lays; 
Since  he,  the  soldier's  guiding-star, 
The  Victor-chief,  the  lord  of  war, 

Has  owned  thy  fame : 
And  oh  !  like  his  approving  word, 
What  trophied  marble  could  record 

A  warrior's  name  ? 


THE  AGED  INDIAN. 


333 


GUERILLA  SONG. 

FOUNDED   ON    THB   STORY   RELATED   OF   THE   SPANISH    PATRIOT   MINA. 

OH  !  forget  not  the  hour,  when  through  forest  and  vale, 
We  returned  with  our  chief  to  his  dear  native  halls; 
Through  the  woody  Sierra  there  sighed  not  a  gale, 
And  the  moonbeam  was  bright  on  his  battlement-walls; 
And  nature  lay  sleeping  in  calmness  and  light, 
Round  the  home  of  the  valiant,  that  rose  on  our  sight. 

We  entered  that  home — all  was  loneliness  round, 

The  stillness,  the  darkness,  the  peace  of  the  grave  ; 

Not  a  voice,  not  a  step,  bade  its  echoes  resound, 

Ah  !  such  was  the  welcome  that  waited  the  brave ! 

For  the  spoilers  had  passed,  like  the  poison-wind's  breath, 

And  the  loved  of  his  bosom  lay  silent  in  death. 

Oh  !  forget  not  that  hour — let  its  image  be  near, 
In  the  light  of  our  mirth,  in  the  dreams  of  our  rest, 
Let  its  tale  awake  feelings  too  deep  for  a  tear, 
And  rouse  into  vengeance  each  arm  and  each  breast, 
Till  cloudless  the  dayspring  of  liberty  shine 
O'er  the  plains  of  the  olive,  and  hills  of  the  vine. 


THE  AGED  INDIAN. 


WARRIORS!  my  noon  of  life  is  past, 
The  brightness  of  my  spirit  flown; 
\  crouch  before  the  wintry  blast, 
Amidst  my  tribe  I  dwell  alone  ; 
The  heroes  of  my  youth  are  fled, 
They  rest  among  the  warlike  dead. 

Ye  slumberers  of  the  narrow  cave ! 
My  kindred-chiefs  in  days  of  yore, 
Ye  fill  an  unremembered  grave, 
Your  fame,  your  deeds,  are  known  no 

more, 

The  records  of  your  wars  are  gone, 
Your  names  forgot  by  all  but  one. 

Soon  shall  that  one  depart  from  earth, 
To  join  the  brethren  of  his  prime  ; 
Then  will  the  memory  of  your  birth 
Sleep  with  the  hidden  things  of  time. 
With  him,  ye  sons  of  former  days ! 
Fades  the   last    glimmering  of    your 
praise. 


His  eyes,  that  hailed  your  spirits'  flame, 
Still  kindling  in  the  combat's  shock, 
Have  seen,  since  darkness  veiled  your 

fame, 

Sons  of  the  desert  and  the  rockl 
Another,  and  another  race, 
Rise  to  the  battle  and  the  chase. 

Descendants  of  the  mighty  dead  1 
Fearless  of  heart,  and  firm  of  hand ! 
O  I  let  me  join  their  spirits  fled, 
O  !  send  me  to  their  shadowy  land. 
Age  hath  not  tamed  Ontara's  heart, 
He  shrinks  not  from  the  friendly  dart. 

These   feet   no   more   can    chase   the 

deer, 

The  glory  of  this  arm  is  flown  ; — 
Why  should  the  feeble  linger  here, 
When  all  the  pride  of  life  is  gone  ? 
Warriors  I  why  still  the  stroke  deny, 
Think  ye  Ontara  fears  to  die  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


He  feared  not  in  his  flower  of  days, 
When   strong    to   stem   the    torrent's 

force, 
When   through   the  desert's  pathless 

maze, 

His  way  was  an  eagle's  course  ! 
When  war  was  sunshine  to  his  sight, 
And  the  wild  hurricane,  delight ! 

^hall  then  the  warrior  tremble  now  ? 
Now  when  his  envied  strength  is  o'er  ? 


Hung  on  the  pine  his  idle  bow, 
His  pirogue  useless  on  the  shore? 
When  age  hath  dimmed  his  failing  eyQ 
Shall  he,  the  joyless,  fear  to  die  ? 

Sons  of  the  brave  !  delay  no  more, 
The  spirits  of  my  kindred  call ; 
"Tis  but  one  pang,  and  all  is  o'er ! 
Oh  !  bid  the  aged  cedar  fall ! 
To  join  the  brethren  of  his  primet 
The  mighty  of  departed  time. 


EVENING  AMONGST  THE  ALPS. 

SOFT  skies  of  Italy !  how  richly  drest, 
Smile  these  wild  scenes  in  your  purpureal  glowl 
What  glorious  hues,  reflected  from  the  west, 
Float  o'er  the  dwellings  of  eternal  snow  ! 

Yon  torrent,  foaming  down  the  granite  steep, 
Sparkles  all  brilliance  in  the  setting  beam ; 
Dark  glens  beneath  in  shadowy  beauty  sleep, 
Where  pipes  the  goatherd  by  his  mountain-stream. 

Now  from  yon  peak  departs  the  vivid  ray, 

That  still  at  eve  its  lofty  temple  knows  ; 

From  rock  and  torrent  fade  the  tints  away, 

And  all  is  wrapt  in  twilight's  deep  repose  : 

While  through  the  pine-wood  gleams  the  vesper  star. 

And  roves  the  Alpine  gale  o'er  solitudes  afar. 


DIRGE  OF  THE  HIGHLAND    CHIEF  IN  "  WAVERLEY." 


SON  of  the  mighty  and  the  free ! 
High-minded  leader  of  the  brave  ! 
Was  it  for  lofty  chief  like  thee, 

To  fill  a  namelesss  grave  ? 
Oh  !  if  amidst  the  valiant  slain, 
The  warrior's  bier  had  been  thy  lot, 
E'en  though  on  red  Culloden's  plain, 

We  then  had  mourned  thee  not. 

But  darkly  closed  thy  dawn  of  fame, 
That  dawn  whose  sunbeam  rose  so  fair  ; 
Vengeance  alone  may  breathe  thy  name, 
The  watchword  of  Despair  I 


Yet  oh  !  if  gallant  spirit's  power 
Hath  e'er  ennobled  death  like  thine, 
Then  glory  marked  thy  parting  hour, 
Last  of  a  mighty  line  ! 

O'er  thy  own  towers  the  sunshine  falls 
But  cannot  chase  their  silent  gloom ; 
Those  beams  that  gild  thy  native  walls 

Are  sleeping  on  thy  tomb ! 
Spring   on  thy  mountains  laughs  the 

while, 

Thy  green  woods  wave  in  vernal  air, 
But  the  loved  scenes  may  vainly  smile: 

Not  e'en  thv  dust  i*  there. 


THE,  DEATH  OF  CLANRONALD. 


335 


On  thy  blue  hills  no  bugle-sound 
Is  mingling  with  the  torrent's  roar, 
Unmarked,  the  wild  deer  sport  around  ; 

Thou  leadst  the  chase  no  more ! 
Thy  gates  are  closed,  thy  halls  are  still, 
Those  halls  where  pealed  the  choral 

strain ; 

They  hear  the  wind's  deep  murmuring 
thrill, 

And  Al\  is  hushed  again. 

Xo  banner  from  the  lonely  tower 
Shall  wave  its  blazoned  folds  on  high  ; 
There  the  tall  grass,  and  summer  flower, 

Unmarked  shall  spring  and  die. 
No  more  thy  bard,  for  other  ear, 
Shall    wake   the   harp  once   loved  by 

thine — 
Hushed  be  the  strain  thou  canst  not 

hear, 
Last  of  a  mighty  line  ! 


THE   CRUSADERS'  WAR-SONG. 

CHIEFTAINS,  lead  on!  our  hearts  beat 

high, 

Lead  on  to  Salem's  towers  I 
Who  would  not  deem  it  bliss  to  die, 

Slain  in  a  cause  like  ours? 
The  brave  who  sleep  in  soil  of  thine, 
Die  not  entombed  but  shrined,  O  Pales- 
tine 1 

Souls  of  the  slain  in  holy  war!* 
Look  from  your  sainted  rest. 

Tell  us  ye  rose  in  Glory's  car, 
To  mingle  with  the  blest ; 


Tel/   us  how  short  the  death  pang's 

power, 
How  bright  the  joys  of  your  immortal 

bower. 

Strike  the  loud  harp,  ye  minstrel  train 
Pour  forth  your  loftiest  lays  ; 

Each  heart  shall  echo  to  the  strain 
Breathed  in  the  warrior's  praise. 

Bid  every  string  triumphant  swell 

The  inspiring  sounds  that  heroes  lovsi 
so  well. 

Salem !  amidst  the  fiercest  hour, 

The  wildest  rage  of  fight, 
Thy  name    shall   lend   our    falchions 

power, 

And  nerve  our  hearts  with  might. 
Envied  be  those  for  thce  thai  fall, 
Who   find   their    graves    beneath   thy 
sacred  wall. 

For  them  no  need  that  sculptured  tomb 
Should  chronicle  their  fame, 

Or  pyramid  record  their  doom, 
Or  deathless  verse  their  name ; 

It  is  enough  that  dust  of  thine 

Should  shroud  their  forms,  O  blessed 
Palestine ! 

Chieftains,  lead  on !    our  hearts  beat 

high 

For  combat's  glorious  hour  ; 
Soon  shall  the  red-cross  banner  fly 

On  Salem's  loftiest  tower  1 
We  burn  to  mingle  in  the  strife, 
Where   but  to  die  ensures  eternal 
life. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CLANRONALD. 

It  was  in  the  battle  of  Sheriffmoor  that  young  Clanronald  fell,  leading  on  the  Highlanders  ov 
.lie  right  wing.  His  deatli  dispirited  the  assailants,  who  began  to  waver.  P.i-t  Glengary,  chief 
~il  a  rival  branch  of  the  clan  Colla,  started  from  the  ranks,  and,  waving  his  bonnet  round  Ill's  head, 
cried  out,  "  To-day  for  revenge,  and  to-morrow  for  mourning !  '  The  Hightandeis  received  a 
new  impulse  from  his  words,  and,  charging  with  redoubled  fury,  bore  down  all  before  [beta.— S** 
the  Quarterly  Review  article  of  "  Cufioden  Papers." 

OH!  ne'er  be  Clanronald  the  valiant  forgot ! 
Still  fearless  and  first  in  the  combat,  he  fell ; 
But  we  paused  not  one.  tear-drop  to  shed  o'er  the  spot, 


330  MISCELLANEOUS. 


We  spared  not  one  moment  to  murmur  "  Farewell." 
We  heard  but  the  battle-word  given  by  the  chief, 
"  To-day  for  revenge,  and  to-morrow  for  grief !  " 

And  wildly,  Clanronald  !  we  echoed  the  vow, 
With  the  tear  on  our  cheek,  and  the  sword  in  our  hand ; 
Young  son  of  the  brave  !  we  may  weep  for  thee  now, 
For  well  has  thy  death  been  avenged  by  thy    and, 
When  they  joined,  in  wild  chorus,  the  cry  of  the  chief, 
"  To-day  for  revenge,  and  to-morrow  for  grief !  "    . 

Thy  dirge  in  that  hour  was  the  bugle's  wild  call, 
The  clash  of  the  claymore,  the  shout  of  the  brave  ; 
But  now  thy  own  bard  may  lament  for  thy  fall, 
And  the  soft  voice  of  melody  sigh  o'er  thy  grave — 
While  Albyn  remembers  the  words  of  the  chief, 
"  To-day  for  revenge,  and  to-morrow  for  grief!  " 

Thou  art  fallen,  O  fearless  one  !  flower  of  thy  race  i 
Descendant  of  heroes  !  thy  glory  is  set : 
But  thy  kindred,  the  sons  of  the  battle  and  chase, 
Have  proved  that  thy  spirit  is  bright  in  them  yet  I 
Nor  vainly  have  echoed  the  words  of  the  chief, 
**  To-day  for  revenge,  and  to-morrow  for  grief ! " 


TO  THE  EYE. 

THRONE  of  expression !  whence  the  spirit's  ray 
Pours  fourth  so  oft  the  light  of  mental  day, 
Where  fancy's  fire,  affection's  melting  beam, 
Thought,  genius,  passion,  reign  in  turn  supreme, 
And  many  a  feeling,  words  can  ne'er  impart, 
Finds  its  own  language  to  pervade  the  heart ; 
Thy  power,  bright  orb,  what  bosom  hath  not  felt, 
To  thrill,  to  rouse,  to  fascinate,  to  melt  ! 
And  by  some  spell  of  undefined  control, 
With  magnet-influence  touch  the  secret  soul! 

Light  of  the  features  !  in  the  morn  of  youth 

Thy  glance  is  nature,  and  thy  language  truth  ; 

And  ere  the  world,  with  all-corrupting  sway, 

Hath  taught  e'en  thee  to  flatter  and  betray, 

The  ingenuous  heart  forbids  thee  to  reveal, 

Or  speak  one  thought  that  interest  would  conceal ; 

While  yet  thou  seemest  the  cloudless  mirror,  given 

But  to  reflect  the  purity  of  heaven : 

O!  then  how  lovely,  there  unveiled,  to  trace 

The  unsullied  brightness  of  each  mental  grace  I 


THE  HERO'S  DEA  TH.  337 

When  Genius  lends  thee  all  his  living  light 
Where  the  full  beams  of  intellect  unite; 
When  love  illumines  thee  with  his  varying  ray, 
Where  trembling  Hope  and  tearful  Rapture  play; 
Or  Pity's  melting  cloud  thy  beam  subdues, 
Tempering  its  lustre  with  a  veil  of  dews; 
Still  does  thy  power,  whose  all-commanding  spell 
Can  pierce  the  mazes  of  the  soul  so  well, 
Bid  some  new  feeling  to  existence  start, 
From  its  deep  slumbers  in  the  inmost  heart. 

And  O  !  when  thought,  in  ecstasy  sublime, 

That  soars  triumphant  o'er  the  bounds  of  time, 

Fires  thy  keen  glance  with  inspiration's  blaze, 

The  light  of  heaven,  the  hope  of  nobler  days, 

(As  glorious  dreams,  for  utterance  far  too  nigh, 

Flash  through  the  mist  of  dim  mortality;) 

Who  does  not  own,  that  through  the  lightning-beam* 

A  flame  unquenchable,  unearthly,  streams  ? 

That  pure,  though  captive  effluence  of  the  sky, 

The  vestal  ray,  the  spark  that  cannot  die  ! 


THE  HERO'S  DEATH. 

LIFE'S  parting  beams  were  in  his  eye, 
Life's  closing  accents  on  his  tongue, 
When  round  him,  pealing  to  the  sky, 
The  shout  of  victory  rung ! 

Then,  ere  his  gallant  spirit  fled, 
A  smile  so  bright  illumed  his  face — 
Oh  !  never,  of  the  light  it  shed, 
Shall  memory  lose  a  trace ! 

His  was  a  death,  whose  rapture  high 
Transcended  all  that  life  could  yield; 
His  warmest  prayer  was  so  to  die, 
On  the  red  battle-field  ! 

And  they  may  feel,  who  loved  him  most, 
A  pride  so  holy  and  so  pure  : 
Fate  hath  no  power  o'er  those  who  boast 
A  treasure  thus  secure  i 


338  MISCELLANEOUS, 


THE  TREASURES  OF  THE  DEEP.1 

WHAT  hidest  thou  in  thy  treasure  caves  and  cells, 
Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysterious  main  ? — 

Pale  glistening  pearls,  and  rainbow-colored  shells 
Bright  things  which  gleam  unrecked  of,  and  in  vain. 

Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea ! 
We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 

Yet/nore,  the  depths  have  more  !     What  wealth  untold, 
Far  down,  and  shining  through  their  stillness  lies 

Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold, 
Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  Argosies. — 

Sweep  o'er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful  main  ! 
Earth  claims  not  these  again. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more  !    Thy  waves  have  rolled 

Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by! 
Sand  hath  filled  up  the  palaces  of  old, 

Sea-weed  o'ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry. — 
Dash  o'er  them,  ocean  !  in  thy  scornful  play : 
Man  yields  them  to  decay. 

Yet  more  !  the  billows  and  the  depths  have  more  I 
High  hearts  and  brave  are  gathered  to  thy  breast ! 

They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters  roar, 
The  battle-thunders  will  not  break  their  rest. — 

Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems,  thou  stormy  grave  ! 
Give  back  the  true  and  brave! 

Give  back  the  lost  and  lovely  ! — those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long, 

The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight's  breathless  gloom. 
And  the  vain  yearning  woke  midst  festal  song  ! 

Hold  fast  thy  buried  isles,  thy  towers  o'erthrown— 
But  all  is  not  thine  own. 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone  down, 
Dark  flow  thy  tides  o'er  manhood's  noble  head, 

O'er  youth's  bright  locks,  and  beauty's  flowery  crown; 
Yet  must  thou  hear  a  voice — Restore  the  dead  ! 

Earth  shall  reclaim  her  precious  things  from  thee! — 
N     Restore  the  dead,  thou  sea  I 


BRING  FLOWERS. 

BRING  flowers,  young  flowers,  for  the  festal  board, 
To  wreath  the  cifp  ere  the  wine  is  poured ! 
Bring  flowers  !  they  are  springing  in  wood  and  vale  : 
Their  breath  floats  out  on  the  southern  gale, 

1  Originally  introduced  in  the  "  Forest  Sanctuary.1* 


High  hearts  and  brave  are  gathered  to  thy  breast ! " 

Page  338. 


THE  CRUSADER'S  RETURN.  339 

And  the  touch  of  the  sunbeam  hath  waked  the  rose, 
To  deck  the  hall  where  the  bright  wine  flows. 

Bring  flowers  to  strew  in  the  conqueror's  path  ! 
He  hath  shaken  thrones  with  his  stormy  wrath: 
He  comes  with  the  spoils  of  nations  back, 
The  vines  lie  crushed  in  his  chariot's  track, 
The  turf  looks  red  where  he  won  the  clay. 
Bring  flowers  to  die  in  the  conqueror's  way ! 

Bring  flowers  to  the  captive's  lonely  cell  ! 

They  have  tales  of  the  joyous  woods  to  tell — 

Of  the  free  blue  streams,  and  the  glowing  sky, 

And  the  bright  world  shut  from  his  languid  eye; 

They  will  bear  him  a  thought  of  the  sunny  hours, 

And  the  dream  of  his  youth.    Bring  him  flowers,  wild  flowers  I 

Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers,  for  the  bride  to  wear  1 
They  were  born  to  blush  in  her  shining  hair 
She  is  leaving  the  home  of  her  childhood's  mirth, 
She  hath  bid  farewell  to  her  father's  hearth, 
Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side. 
Bring  flowers  for  the  locks  of  the  fair  young  bride ! 

Bring  flowers,  pale  flowers,  o'er  the  bier  to  shed, 

A  crown  for  the  brow  of  the  early  dead  ! 

For  this  through  its  leaves  hath  the  white  rose  burst. 

For  this  in  the  woods  was  the  violet  nursed ! 

Though  they  smile  in  vain  for  what  once  was  ours, 

They  are  love's  last  gift.     Bring  ye  flowers,  pale  flowers! 

Bring  flower's  to  the  shrine  where  we  kneel  in  prayer — 

They  are  nature's  offering,  their  place  is  there  ! 

They  speak  of  hope  to  the  fainting  heart, 

With  a  voice  of  promise  they  come  and  part, 

They  sleep  in  dust  through  the  wintry  hours, 

They  break  forth  in  glory.     Bring  flowers,  bright  flowers  I 


THE  CRUSADER'S  RETURN. 

"Alas!  the  mother  that  him  bare, 
If  she  had  been  In  presence  there, 
In  his  wan  cheeks  and  sunburnt  hair 

She  had  not  known  her  child."— Marmion, 

REST,  pilgrim,  rest !    Thou'rt  from  the  Syrian  land, 
Thou'rt  from  the  wild  and  wondrous  East,  I  know 

By  the  long-withered  palm-branch  in  thy  hand, 
And  by  the  darkness  of  thv  sunburnt  brow. 


54°  MISCELLANEOUS. 


Alas  !  the  bright,  the  beautiful,  who  part 

So  full  of  hope,  for  that  far  country's  bourne  ! 

Alas !  the  weary  and  the  changed  in  heart, 
And  dimmed  in  aspect,  who  like  thee  return ! 

Thou'rt  faint — stay,  rest  thee  from  thy  toils  at  last : 

Through  the  high  chestnuts  lightly  plays  the  breeze, 
The  stars  gleam  out,  the  Av..  hour  is  past, 

The  sailor's  hymn  hath  died  along  the  seas. 
Thou'rt  faint  and  worn — hear'st  thou  the  fountain  welling 

By  the  gray  pillars  of  yon  ruined  shrine  ? 
Seest  thou  the  dewy  grapes  before  thee  swelling  ? 

He  that  hath  left  me  trained  that  loaded  vine  I 

He  was  a  child  when  thus  the  bower  he  wove, 

(Oh  !  hath  a  day  fled  since  his  childhood's  time  ?) 
That  I  might  sit  and  hear  the  sound  I  love, 

Beneath  its  shade — the  convent's  vesper-chime. 
And  sit  thou  there  ! — for  he  was  gentle  ever, 

With  his  glad  voice  he  would  have  welcomed  thee, 
And  brought  fresh  fruits  to  cool  thy  parched  lips'  fever. 

There  in  his  place  thou'rt  resting — where  is  he  ? 

If  I  could  hear  that  laughing  voice  again, 

But  once  again  I     How  oft  it  wanders  by, 
In  the  still  hours,  like  some  remembered  strain, 

Troubling  the  heart  with  its  wild  melody! — 
Thou  hast  seen  much,  tired  pilgrim !  hast  thou  seen 

In  that  far  land,  the  chosen  land  of  yore, 
A  youth — my  Guido— with  the  fiery  mien 

And  the  dark  eye  of  this  Italian  shore  ? 

The  dark,  clear ;  lightning  eye!     On  heaven  and  earth 

It  smiled — as  if  man  were  not  dust  it  smiled  I 
The  very  air  seemed  kindling  with  his  mirth, 

And  I — my  heart  grew  young  before  my  child  I 
My  blessed  child  ! — I  had' but  him — yet  he 

Filled  all  my  home  even  with  o'erflowing  joy, 
Sweet  laughter,  and  wild  song,  and  footstep  free. 

Where  is  he  now  ? — my  pride,  my  flower,  my  boy  ! 

His  sunny  childhood  melted  from  my  sight, 

Like  a  spring  dew-drop.    Then  his  forehead  wore 
A  prouder  look — his  eye  a  keener  light: 

I  knew  these  woods  might  be  his  world  no  more ! 
He  loved  me — but  he  left  me !     Thus  they  go 

Whom  we  have  reared,  watched,  blessed,  too  much  adoredl 
He  heard  the  trumpet  of  the  Red  Cross  blow, 

And  bounded  from  me  with  his  father's  sword  I 

Thou  weep'st — I  tremble  ! — Thou  hast  seen  the  slain 

Pressing  a  bloody  turf — the  young  and  fair, 
With  their  pale  beauty  strewing  o'er  the  plain 

Where  hosts  have  met :  speak !  answer ! — was  he  there  ? 


THE  REVELLERS.  34* 


Oh  I  hath  his  smile  departed  ?     Could  the  grave 
Shut  o'er  those  bursts  of  bright  and  tameless  glee? 

No !  I  shall  yet  behold  his  dark  locks  wave  I 

That  look  gives  hope — I  knew  it  could  not  be! 

Still  wcep'st  thou,  wanderer  ?     Some  fond  mother's  glance 

O'er  thee,  too,  brooded  in  thine  early  years — 
Think'st  thou  of  her,  whose  gentle  eye,  perchance, 

Bathed  all  thy  faded  hair  with  parting  tears  ? 
Speak,  for  thy  tears  disturb  me  ! — what  art  thou  ? 

Why  dost  thou  hide  thy  face,  yet  weeping  on  ? 
Look  up !     Oh !  is  it — that  wan  cheek  and  brow  !— 

Is  it— alas !  yet  joy  I — my  son,  my  son  J 


THE  REVELLERS. 

RING,  joyous  chords  ! — ring  out  again! 

A  swifter  and  a  wilder  strain  ! 

They  are  here — the  fair  face  and  the  careless  heart, 

And  stars  shall  wane  ere  the  mirthful  part. 

But  I  met  a  dimly  mournful  glance, 
In  a  sudden  turn  of  the  flying  dance ; 
I  heard  the  tone  of  a  heavy  sigh 
In  a  pause  of  the  thrilling  melody ! 
And  it  is  not  well  that  woe  should  breathe 
On  the  bright  spring-flowers  of  the  festal  wreath  I— 
Ye  that  to  thought  or  to  grief  belong, 
Leave,  leave  the  hall  of  song! 

Ring,  joyous  chords  I — But  who  art  thou 
With  the  shadowy  locks  o'er  thy  pale  young  brow. 
And  the  world  of  dreamy  gloom  that  lies 
In  the  misty  depths  of  thy  soft  dark  eyes  ? 
Thou  hast  loved,  fair  girl !  thou  hast  loved  too  welll 
Thou  art  mourning  now  o'er  a  broken  spell ; 
Thdu  hast  poured  thy  heart's  rich  treasures  forth, 
And  art  unrepaid  for  their  priceless  worth  ! 
Mourn  on  !  yet  come  thou  not  here  the  while, 
It  is  but  a  pain  to  see  thee  smile  ! 
There  is  not  a  tone  in  our  songs  for  thee — 
Home  with  thy  sorrows  flee ! 

Ring,  joyous  chords  !  ring  out  again  1 
But  what  dost  thou  with  the  revel's  train  ? 
A  silvery  voice  through  the  soft  air  floats, 
But  thou  hast  no  part  in  the  gladdening  notes ; 
There  are  bright  young  faces  that  pass  thee  by, 
But  they  fix  no  glance  of  thy  wandering  eye  J 


MISCELLANEOUS, 


Away  1  there's  a  void  in  thy  yearning  breast, 
Thou  weary  man  !  wilt  thou  here  find  rest! 
Away  !  for  thy  thoughts  from  the  scene  have  fled, 
And  the  love  of  ////  spirit  is  With  the  dead  : 
Thou  art  but  more  lone  midst  th«  sounds  ef  mirth- 
Back  to  thy  silent  hearth  I 

Ring,  joyous  chords  !  —  ring  forth  again! 
A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain  !  - 
But  thou,  though  a  reckless  mien  be  thine, 
And  thy  cup  be  crowned  with  the  foaming  wme, 
By  the  fitful  bursts  of  thy  laughter  loud, 
By  thine  eye's  quick  flash  through  its  troubled  cloud, 
I  know  thee  !  it  is  but  the  wakeful  fear 
Of  a  haunted  bosom  that  brings  thee  here  I 
I  know  thee  !  —  thou  fearest  the  solemn  night, 
With  her  piercing  stars  and  her  deep  wind's  might  ! 
.There's  a  tone  in  her  voice  which  thou  fain  wouldst  shun, 
For  it  asks  what  the  secret  soul  hath  done  ! 
And  thou  —  there's  a  dark  weight  on  thine  —  away  !  — 
Back  to  thy  home,  and  pray  1 

Ring,  joyous  chords  !  —  ring  out  again  I 
A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain  ! 
And  bring  fresh  wreaths  !  —  we  will  banish  all 
Save  the  free  in  heart  from  our  festive  hall. 
On  !  through  the  maze  of  the  fleet  dance,  on  1— 
But  where  are  the  young  and  the  lovely  gone? 
Where  are  the  brows  with  the  Red  Cross  crowned, 
And  the  floating  forms  with  the  bright  zone  bound? 
And  the  waving  locks  and  the  flying  feet, 
That  still  should  be  where  the  mirthful  meet  ?  — 
They  are  gone  —  they  are  fled  —  they  are  parted  all  : 
Alas  1  the  forsaken  hall  ! 


CONQUEROR'S  SLEEP. 

SLEEP  midst  thy  banners  furled  1 
Yes  !  thou  art  there,  upon  thy  buckler  lying, 
With  the  soft  wind  unfelt  around  thee  sighing, 
Thou  chief  of  hosts,  whose  trumpet  shakes  the  world ! 
Sleep,  while  the  babe  sleeps  on  its  mother's  breast. 
Oh !  strong  is  night — for  thou  too  art  at  rest  1 

Stillness  hath  smoothed  thy  brow, 
And  now  might  love  keep  timid  vigils  by  thee, 
Now  might  the  foe  with  stealthy  foot  draw  nigh  the*, 


O'JK  LADY'S  WELL. 


Alike  unconscious  and  defenceless  thou  ! 
Tread  lightly,  watchers  !     Now  the  field  is  won, 
Break  not  the  rest  of  nature's  weary  son  J 

Perchance  some  lovely  dream 
Back  from  the  stormy  fight  thy  soul  is  bearing, 
To  the  green  places  of  thy  boyish  daring, 
And  all  the  windings  of  thy  native  stream. 
Why,  this  were  joy  !     Upon  the  tented  plain, 
Dream  on,  thou  Conqueror  ! — be  a  child  again ! 

But  thou  wilt  wake  at  morn, 
With  thy  strong  passions  to  the  conflict  leaping, 
And  thy  dark  troubled  thoughts  all  earth  o'ersweeping  \ 
So  wilt  thou  rise,  O  thou  of  woman  born  ! 
And  put  thy  terrors  on,  till  none  may  dare 
Look  upon  thee — the  tired  one,  slumbering  there  1 

Why,  so  the  peasant  sleeps 

Beneath  his  vine  I — and  man  must  kneel  before  thee, 
And  for  his  birthright  vainly  still  implore  thee  ! 
Shalt  thou  be  stayed  because  thy  brother  weeps  ? — 
Wake  !  and  forget  that  midst  a  dreaming  world, 
Thou  hast  lain  thus,  with  all  thy  banners  furled  ! 

Forget  that  thou,  even  thou, 

Hast  feebly  shivered  when  the  wind  passed  o'er  thee, 
And  sunk  to  rest  upon  the  earth  which  bore  thee, 
And  felt  the  night-dew  chill  thy  fevered  brow  I 
Wake  with  the  trumpet,  with  the  spear  press  onF— 
Yet  shall  the  dust  take  home  its  mortal  son. 


OUR  LADY'S  WELL.* 

FOUNT  of  the  woods  !  thou  art  hid  no  more 
From  heaven's  clear  eye,  as  in  time  of  yore. 
For  the  roof  hath  sunk  from  thy  mossy  walls, 
And  the  sun's  free  glance  on  thy  slumber  falls; 
And  the  dim  tree-shadows  across  thee  pass, 
As  the  boughs  are  swayed  o'er  thy  silvery  glass ; 
And  the  reddening  leaves  to  thy  breast  are  blown, 
When  the  autumn  wind  hath  a  stormy  tone  ; 
And  thy  bubbles  rise  to  the  flashing  rain — 
Bright  Fount !  thou  art  nature's  own  again  I 

Fount  of  the  vale  !  thou  art  sought  no  more 
By  the  pilgrim's  foot,  as  in  time  of  yore, 

1  A  beautiful  spring  in  the  woods  near  St.  Asanh,  formerly  corered  in  with  a  chapel,  now  in 
ice.     !»•  was  dedicated  to  the  Virgin,  and,  according  to  Pennant,  much  the  resort  of  pilgrims. 


•544 


.-.riSClLLLANEO  US. 


When  he  came  from  afar,  his  beads  to  tell, 
And  to  chant  his  hymn  at  Our  Lady's  Well. 
There  is  heard  no  'Ave  through  thy  bowers, 
Thou  art  gleaming  lone  midst  thy  water-flowers  t 
But  the  herd  may  drink  from  thy  gushing  wave, 
And  there  may  the  reaper  his  forehead  lave, 
And  the  woodman  seeks  thee  not  in  vain — 
Bright  Fount  1  thou  art  nature's  own  again  ! 

Fount  of  the  Virgin's  ruined  shrine! 

A  voice  that  speaks  of  the  past  is  thine, 

It  mingles  the  tone  of  a  thoughtful  sigh 

With  the  notes  that  ring  through  the  laughing  sky ; 

Midst  the  mirthful  song  of  the  summer  bird, 

And  the  sound  of  the  breeze,  it  will  yet  be  heard  1— 

Why  is  it  that  thus  we  may  gaze  on  thee, 

To  the  brilliant  sunshine  sparkling  free  ? 

Tis  that  all  on  earth  is  of  Time's  domain — 

He  hath  made  thee  nature's  own  again  ! 

Fount  of  the  chapel  with  ages  gray  ! 
Thou  art  springing  freshly  amidst  decay  ; 
Thy  rites  are  closed,  and  thy  cross  lies  low, 
And  the  changeful  hours  breathe  o'er  thee  now. 
Yet  if  at  thine  altar  one  holy  thought 
In  man's  deep  spirit  of  old  hath  wrought ; 
If  peace  to  the  mourner  hath  here  been  given, 
Or  prayer,  from  a  chastened  heart,  to  heaven — 
Be  the  spot  still  hallowed  while  Time  shall  reign, 
Who  hath  made  thee  nature's  own  again ! 


THE  PARTING  OF  SUMMER. 


THOU'RT  bearing  hence  thy  roses, 
Glad  summer,  fare  thee  well ! 

Thou'rt  singing  thy  last  melodies 
In  every  wood  and  dell. 

But  e'er  the  golden  sunset 
Of  thy  latest  lingering  day, 

Oh  I  tell  me,  o'er  this  checkered  earth, 
How  hast  thou  passed  away  ? 

Jrightly,  sweet  Summer!  brightly 
Thine  hours  have  floated  by, 

To  the  joyous  birds  of  the  woodland 

boughs, 
The  rangers  of  the  sky  ; 

And  brightly  in  the  forests, 
To  the  wild  deer  wandering  free  ; 


And  brightly,  midst  the  garden  flowery 
To  the  happy  murmuring  bee  : 

But  how  to  human  bosoms, 
With  all  their  hopes  and  fears, 

And  thoughts  that  make  them  eagle. 

wings, 
To  pierce  the  unborn  years  ? 

Sweet  Summer  1  to  the  captive 
Thou  hast  flown  in  burning  dreams 

Of  the  woods,  with  all  their  whispcru  t 

leaves, 
And  the  blue  rejoicing  streams  ;— 

To  the  wasted  and  the  weary 

On  the  bed  of  sickness  bound, 
In  swift  delirious  fantasies, 
That  changed  with  every  sound ; — 


THE  SONG  OF  OUR  FATHERS. 


345 


To  the  sailor  on  the  billows, 

In  longings,  wild  and  vain, 
For  the  gushing  founts  and  breezy  hills, 

And  the  homes  of  earth  again  ! 

And  unto  me,  glad  Summer  ! 

How  hast  thou  flown  to  me  ? 
\fy  chainless  footstep  naught  hath  kept 

From  thy  haunts  of  song  and  glee. 

Thou  hast  flown  in  wayward  visions, 

In  memories  of  the  dead — 
In  shadows  from  a  troubled  heart, 

O'er  thy  sunny  pathway  shed  : 


In  brief  and  sudden  strivings 

To  fling  a  weight  aside — 
Midst  these  thy  melodies  have  ceased, 

And  all  thy  roses  died. 

Bvt  oh!  thou  gentle  Summer  I 
If  I  greet  thy  flowers  once  more, 

Bring  me  again  the  buoyancy 
Wherewith  my  soul  should  soar! 

Give  me  to  hail  thy  sunshine 
With  song  and  and  spirit  free ; 

Or  in  a  purer  air  than  this 
May  that  next  meeting  be  I 


THE  SONG  OF  OUR  FATHERS. 


-"  Sing  aloud 


Old  songs,  the  precious  music  of  the  heart." 

WORDSWORTH. 


SING  them  upon  the  sunny  hills, 

When  days  are  long  and  bright, 
And  the  blue  gleam  of  shining  rills 

Is  loveliest  to  the  sight ! 
Sing  them  along  the  misty  moor, 

Where  ancient  hunters  roved, 
And  swell  them  through  the  torrent's 
roar, 

The  sor.gs  our    .liiers  loved! 
The  songs  their  souls  rejoiced  to  hear 

When  harps  were  in  the  hall, 
And  each  proud  note  made  lance  and 
spear 

Thrill  on  the  bannered  wall  : 
The  songs   that    through  our   valleys 
green, 

Sent  on  from  age  to  age, 
Like  his  own  river's  voice,  have  been 

The  peasant's  heritage. 
The  reaper  sings  them  when  the  vale 

Is  filled  with  plumy  sheaves  ; 
The  woodman,  by  the  starlight  pale, 

Cheered     homeward     through     the 

leaves : 
And  unto  them  the  glancing  oars 

A  joyous  measure  keep,          [shores 
Where  the  dark  rocks  that  crest  our 

Dash  back  the  foaming  deep. 


So  let  it  be  I  a  light  they  shed 

O'er  each  old  fount  and  grove  ; 
A  memory  of  the  gentle  dead, 

A  lingering  spell  of  love. 
Murmuring  the  names  of  mighty  men, 

They  bid  our  streams  roll  on, 
And  link  high  thoughts  to  every  glen 

Where  valiant  deeds  were  done. 

Teach  them  your  children  round  tha 
hearth, 

When  evening  fires  burn  clear, 
And  in  the  fields  of  harvest  mirth, 

And  on  the  hills  of  deer. 
So  shall  each  unforsioften  word,  ' 

When  far  those  loved  ones  roam, 
Call   back   the  hearts  which   once  i» 
stirred 

To  childhood's  holy  home. 

The  green  woods  of  their  native  land 

Shall  whisper  in  the  strain, 
The  voices  of  their  household  band 

Shall  breathe  their  names  again; 
The  heathcrv  heights  in  vision  rise, 

Where,  like  the  stag,  they  roved. 
Sing  to  your  sons  those  melodies, 

The  songs  vour  fathera  lovedl 


346  MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  WORLD  IN  THE  OPEN  AIR. 

COME,  while  in  freshness  and  dew  it  lies, 
To  the  world  that  is  under  the  free  blue  skies ! 
Leave  ye  man's  home,  and  forget  his  care — 
There  breathes  no  sigh  on  the  dayspring's  air. 

Come  to  the  woods,  in  whose  mossy  dells 
A  light  all  made  for  the  poet  dwells — 
A  light,  colored  softly  by  tender  leaves, 
Whence  the  primrose  a  mellower  glow  receives. 

The  stock-dove  is  there  in  the  beechen  tree, 
And  the  lulling  tone  of  the  honey-bee ; 
And  the  voice  of  cool  waters  'midst  feathery  fern, 
Shedding  sweet  sounds  from  some  hidden  urn. 

There  is  life,  there  is  youth,  there  is  tameless  mirth, 
Where  the  streams,  with  the  lilies  they  wear,  have  birth 
There  is  peace  where  the  alders  are  whispering  low- 
Come  from  man's  dwellings  with  all  their  woe! 

Yes !  we  will  come — we  will  leave  behind 
The  homes  and  the  sorrows  of  human  kind. 
It  is  well  to  rove  where  the  river  leads 
Its  bright  blue  vein  along  sunny  meads: 

It  is  well  through  the  rich  wild  woods  to  go, 
And  to  pierce  the  haunts  of  the  fawn  and  doe; 
And  to  hear  the  gushing  of  gentle  springs, 
When  the  heart  has  been  fretted  by  worldly  stings; 

And  to  watch  the  colors  that  flit  and  pass, 
With  insect-wings,  through  the  wavy  grass; 
And  the  silvery  gleams  o'er  the  ash-tree's  bark, 
Borne  in  with  a  breeze  through  the  foliage  dark. 

Joyous  and  far  shall  our  wanderings  be, 
As  the  flight  of  birds  o'er  the  glittering  sea: 
To  the  woods,  to  the  dingles  where  violets  blow, 
We  will  bear  no  memory  of  earthly  woe. 

But  if  by  the  forest-brook  we  meet 
A  line  like  the  pathway  of  former  feet 
If,  'midst  the  hills,  in  some  lonely  spot, 
We  reach  the  gray  ruins  of  tower  or  cot , 

If  the  cell,  where  a  hermit  of  old  hath  prayed, 
Lift  up  its  cross  through  the  solemn  shade  ; 
Or  if  some  nook,  where  the  wild  flowers  wave. 
Bear  token  sad  of  a  mortal  grave, — 


KINDRED  HEARTS. 


343 


Doubt  not  but  there  will  our  steps  be  stayed, 
There  our  quick  spirits  awhile  delayed ; 
There  will  thought  fix  our  impatient  eyes, 
And  win  back  our  hearts  to  their  sympathies. 

For  what  though  the  mountains  and  skies  be  fair, 
Steeped  in  soft  hues  of  the  summer  air  ? 
'Tis  the  soul  of  man,  by  its  hopes  arrd  dreams, 
That  lights  up  all  nature  with  living  gleams. 

Where  it  hath  suffered  and  nobly  striven, 
Where  it  hath  poured  forth  its  vows  to  heaven 
Where  to  repose  it  hath  brightly  passed, 
O'er  this  green  earth  there  is  glory  cast 

And  by  the  soul,  'midst  groves  and  rills, 
And  flocks  that  feed  on  a  thousand  hills, 
Birds  of  the  forest,  and  flowers  of  the  sod, 
We,  only  we,  may  be  linked  to  God  1 


KINDRED  HEARTS. 


OH!  ask  not,  hope  thou  not  too  much 

Of  sympathy  below  !  [touch 

Few  are  the  hearts  whence  one  same 

Bids  the  sweet  fountains  flow — 
Few — and  by  still  conflicting  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet ; 
Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 

Too  fair  for  aught  so  fleet. 

It  may  be  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine,  which  turns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  the  sky, 

Where  the  rich  sunset  burns  : 
It  may  be  that  the  breath  of  spring, 

Born  amidst  violets  lone, 
A  rapture  o'er  thy  soul  can  bring — 

A  dream,  to  his  unknown. 

The  tune  that  speaks  of  other  times — 

A  sorrowful  delight ! 
The  melody  of  distant  chimes. 

The  sound  of  waves  by  night, 
The  wind  that,  with  BO  many  a  tone, 


Some  chord  within  can  thrill, — 
These   may   have   language   all   thine 

own, 
To  him  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thou  not,  for  this,  the  true 

And  steadfast  love  of  years  ; 
The  kindly,  that  from  childhood  grew, 

The  faithful  to  thy  tears  ! 
If  there  be  one  that  o'er  the  dead 

Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  part, 
And  watched  through  sickness  by  th> 
bed,— 

Call  his  a  kindred  heart ! 

But  for  those  bonds  all  perfect  made 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend — 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade, 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend—- 
For that  full  bliss  of  thought  allied 

Never  to  mortals  given, 
Oh  !  lav  thy  lovely  dreams  aside, 

Or  lift  them  unto  heaven. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


TrfE  TRAVELLER  AT  THE  SOURCE  OF  THE  NILE. 


[N  sunset's  light,  o'er  Afric  thrown 

A  wanderer  proudly  stood 
l!eside  the  well-spring,  deep  and  lone, 

Of  Egypt's  awful  flood — 
The  cradle  of  that  mighty  birth, 
So  long  a  hidden  thing  to  earth  ! 

He   heard    in  life's    first    murmuring 
sound, 

A  low  mysterious  tone — 
A  music  sought,  but  never  found 

By  kings  and  warriors  gone. 
He  listened — and  his  heart  beat  high : 
That  was  the  song  of  victory  ! 

The  rapture  of  a  conqueror's  mood 
Rushed  burning  through  his  frame, — 

The  depths  of  that  green  solitude 
Its  torrents  could  not  tame ; 

Though   stillness  lay,  with  eve's  last 
smile. 

Round  those  far  fountains  of  the  Nile. 

Night   came   with   stars.     Across   his 
soul 

There  swept  a  sudden  change  : 
E'en  at  the  pilgrim's  glorious  goal 

A  shadow  dark  and  strange  [fall 
Breathed  from  the  thought,  so  swift  to 
O'er  triumph's  hour — and  is  this  all  f  1 

No  more  than  this  1     What  seemed  it 

now 

First  by  that  spring  to  stand  ? 
A  thousand  streams  of  lovelier  flow 

Bathed  his  own  mountain-land ! 
Whence,  far  o'er  waste    and    ocean 
track,  [back. 

Their  wild,  sweet  voices,  called   him 


They  called  him  back  to  many  a  glade, 

His  childhood's  haunt  of  play, 
Where   brightly  through   the  beechen 

shade 

Their  waters  glanced  away  ; 
They  called  him,  with  their  sounding 

waves, 
Back  to  his  father's  hills  and  graves. 

But,  darkly  mingling  with  the  thought 

Of  each  familiar  scene, 
Rose  up  a  fearful  vision,  fraught 

With  all  that  lay  between — 
The  Arab's  lance,  the  desert's  gloom. 
The  whirling  sands,  the  red  simoom  ! 

Where   was   the  glow   of  power  and 
pride  ? 

The  spirit  born  to  roam  ? 
His  altered  heart  within  him  died 

With  yearnings  for  his  home  ! 
All  vainly  struggling  to  repress 
The  gush  of  painful  tenderness. 

He  wept !  The  stars  of  Afric's  heaven 

Beheld  his  bursting  tears, 
E'en  on  that  spot  where  fate  had  given 

The  meed  of  toiling  years  ! — 
O  Happiness  !  how  far  we  flee    [thee! 
Thine  own  sweet  paths   in  search   of 


CASABIANCA.2 

THE  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 
Whence  all  but  he  had  fled  ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 
Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 


1  A  remarkable  description  of  feelings  thus  fluctuating  from  triumph  to  despondency,  is  gives 
in  Bruce's  Abyssinian  Travels.  The  buoyant  exultation  of  his  spirits  on  arriving  at  the  source 
r.f  the  Nile,  was  almost  immediately  succeeded  by  a  gloom,  which  he  thus  portrays: — "  I  was,  at 
tli.it  very  moment,  in  possession  of  what  hnd  for  many  years  been  the  principal  object  of  my 
Ambition  and  wishes :  indifference,  which,  from  the  usual  infirmity  of  human  nature,  follows,  at 
least  for  a  time,  complete  enjoyment,  had  taken  place  of  it.  The  marsh  and  the  fountains  of  the 
Nile,  upon  comparison  with  the  rise  of  many  of  our  rivers,  became  now  a  trifling  object  in  my 
sitrht.  I  remember  that  magnificent  scene  in  my  own  native  country,  where  the  Tweed,  Clyde, 
and  Annan,  rise  in  one  hill.  I  began,  in  my  sorrow,  to  treat  the  inquiry  about  the  source  of  the 
Nile  as  a  violent  effort  of  a  distempered  fancy." 

*  Young  Casablanca,  a  boy  about  thirteen  years  old,  son  to  the  Admiral  of  the  Orient,  remained 
at  his  post  (in  the  Battle  of  the  Nile)  after  the  ship  had  taken  fire,  and  all  the  guns  had  been 
abandoned  ;  and  perished  in  the  explosion  of  the  vessel,  when  the  flames  had  readied  tho 
powder. 


"The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 
Whence  all  but  he  had  tied  ;  "     Page  348. 


TUE  DIAL  OFFLOWEXS. 


349 


Vet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 
As  born  to  rule  the  storm — 

A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 
A  proud,  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on — he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word  ; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud  : — "  Say,  father,  say 

If  yet  my  task  is  done !  " 
lie  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"  Speak,  father  !  "  once  again  he  cried, 

"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone  !  " 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
Ind   looked  from   that  lone   post   of 
death 

In  still  yet  brave  despair; 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 
"  My  father  !  must  I  stav?" 

While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and 

shroud, 
The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 
They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 

And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child 
Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder-sound — 
The  boy — oh  !  where  was  he  ? 

Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 
With  fragments  strewed  the  sea  ! — 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 
That  well  had  borne  their  part ; 

But  the  noblest  thing  which  perished 

there 
Was  that  young  faithful  heart ! 


THE  DIAL  OF  FLOWERS.1 

'TWAS  a  lonely  thought  to  mark  the 
hours 

As  they  floated  in  light  away, 
By  the  opening  and  the  folding  flowers, 

That  laugh  to  the  summer's  day. 

Thus  had  each  moment  its  own  rich 

hue, 

And  its  graceful  cup  and  bell 
In  whose  colored  vase  might  sleep  the 

dew, 
Like  a  pearl  in  an  ocean-shell. 

To  such  sweet  signs  might  the  time 
have  flowed 

In  a  golden  current -on, 
Ere  from  the  garden,  man's  first  abode, 

The  glorious  guests  were  gone. 

So  might  the  days  have  been  brightly 

told— 

Those  davs  of  song  and  dreams — 
When  shepherds  gathered  their  flocks 

of  old 
By-  the  blue  Arcadian  streams. 

So  in  those  isles  of  delight,  that  rest 
Far  off  in  a  breezeless  main, 

Which  many  a  bark,  with    a  weary 

quest, 
Has  sought,  but  still  in  vain. 

Yet  is  not  life,  in  its  real  flight, 

Marked  thus — even  thus — on  earth. 

By  the  closing  of  one  hope's  delight, 
And  another's  gentle  birth  ? 

Oh !    let  us  live,  so    that   flower  by 
flower, 

Shutting  in  turn,  may  leave 
A  lingering  still  for  the  sunset  hour, 

A  charm  for  the  shaded  eve. 


1  The  dial  was,  I  believe,  formed  by   Linnaeus,  and  marked  the  hours  by  the  opening  »i4 
Closing,  at  regular  intervals,  o{  the  flowers  arranged  in  it. 


35°  MISCELLANEOUS. 


OUR  DAILY  PATHS.1 

*  Naught  shall  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings."  WORDSWORTH. 

THERE'S  beauty  all  around  our  paths,  if  but  our  watchful  eyes 
Can  trace  it  midst  familiar  things,  and  through  their  lowly  guise ; 
We  may  find  it  where  a  hedgerow  showers  its  blossoms  o'er  our  way, 
Or  a  cottage  window  sparkles  forth  in  the  last  red  light  of  day. 

We  may  find  it  where  a  spring  shines  clear  beneath  an  aged  tree, 
With  the  foxglove  o'er  the  water's  glass,  borne  downwards  by  the  bee ; 
Or  where  a  swift  and  sunny  gleam  on  the  birchen  stems  is  thrown, 
As  a  soft  wind  playing  parts  the  leaves,  in  copses  green  and  lone. 

We  may  find  it  in  the  winter  boughs,  as  they  cross  the  cold  blue  sky, 
While  soft  on  icy  pool  and  stream  their  penciled  shadows  lie, 
When  we  look  upon  their  tracery,  by  the  fairy  frost-work  bound, 
Whence  the  flitting  redbreast  shakes  a  shower  of  crystals  to  the  ground. 

Yes  !   beauty  dwells  in  all  our  paths — but  sorrow  too  is  there  : 
How  oft  some  cloud  within  us  dims  the  bright,  still  summer  air ! 
When  we  carry  our  sick  hearts  abroad  amidst  the  joyous  things, 
That  through  the  leafy  places  glance  on  many-colored  wings. 

With  shadows  from  the  past  we  fill  the  happy  woodland  shades, 
And  a  mournful  memory  of  the  dead  is  with  us  in  the  glades  ; 
And  our  dream-like  fancies  lend  the  wind  an  echo's  plaintive  tone 
Of  voices,  and  of  melodies,  and  of  silvery  laughter  gone. 

But  are  we  free  to  do  even  thus — to  wander  as  we  will, 
Bearing  sad  visions  through  the  grove,  and  o'er  the  breezy  hill? 
No  !  in  our  daily  paths  lie  cares,  that  ofttimes  bind  us  fast, 
While  from  their  narrow  round  we  see  the  golden  day  fleet  past. 


1  This  little  poem  derives  an  additional  Interest  from  being  affectingly  associated  with  a  name 
no  less  distinguished  than  that  of  the  late  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart-  The  admiration  he  always  ex- 
pressed for  Mrs.  Heman's  poetry,  was  mingled  with  regret  that  she  so  generally  made  choice  of 
melancholy  subjects  ;  and  on  one  occasion,  he  sent  her,  through  a  mutual  friend,  a  message  sug- 
gestive of  his  wish  that  she  would  employ  her  fine  talent  in  giving  more  conso'atory  views  of  the 
ways  of  Providence,  thus  infusing  comfort  and  cheer  into  the  bosoms  of  her  readers,  in  a  spirit 
of  Christian  philosophy,  which,  he  thought,  would  be  more  consonant  with  the  pious  mind  and 
loving  heart  displayed  in  every  line  she  wrote,  than  dwelling  on  what  was  painful  and  depress- 
ing, however  beautifully  and  touchmgly  such  subjects  might  be  treated  of.  This  message  was 
faithfully  transmitted,  and  almost  by  return  of  post,  Mrs.  Hemans  (who  was  then  residing  in 
Wales)  sent  to  the  kind  friend  by  whom  it  had  been  forwarded,  the  poem  of  "  Our  Daily  Paths," 
requesting  it  might  be  given  to  Mr.  Stewart,  with  an  assurance  of  her  gratitude  for  the  interest  he 
took  in  her  writings,  and  alleging  as  the  reason  of  the  mournful  strain  which  pervaded  them, 
"  that  a  cloud  hung  over  her  life  which  she  could  not  always  rise  above." 

The  letter  reached  Mr.  Stewart  just  as  he  was  stepping  into  the  carriage,  to  leave  his  country 
residence  (Kinneil  House,  the  property  of  the  Duke  of  Hamilton)  for  Edinburgh — the  last  time, 
alas  !  his  presence  was  ever  to  gladden  that  happy  home,  as  his  valuable  life  was  closed  very 
shortly  afterwards.  The  poem  was  read  by  his  daughter  on  his  way  to  Edinburgh,  and  he  ex- 
pressed himself  in  the  highest  degree  charmed  and  gratified  with  the  result  of  his  suggestions  ,' 
and  some  of  the  lines  which  pleased  him  more  particularly  were  often  repeated  to  him  during  th* 
few  remaining  weeks  of  hishfe. 


THE  CROSS  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.  351 

They  hold  us  from  the  woodlark's  haunts,  and  violet  dingles,  back 
And  from  all  the  lovely  sounds  and  gleams  in  the  shining  river's  track  ; 
They  bar  us  from  our  heritage  of  spring-time,  hope,  and  mirth, 
And  weigh  our  burdened  spirits  down  with  the  cumbering  dust  of  earth. 

Vet  should  this  be  ?   Too  much,  too  soon,  despondingly  we  yield  ! 
A  better  lesson  we  are  taught  by  the  lilies  of  the  field  ! 
A  sweeter  by  the  birds  of  heaven — which  tells  us,  in  their  flight, 
Of  One  that  through  the  desert  air  forever  guides  them  right. 

Shall  not  this  knowledge  calm  our  hearts,  and  bid  vain  conflicts  cease  ? 
Ay,  when  they  commune  with  themselves  in  holy  hours  of  peace 
And  feel  that  by  the  lights  and  clouds  through  which  our  pathway  lies, 
By  the  beauty  and  the  grief  alike,  we  are  training  for  the  skies  I 


THE  CROSS  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

SILENT  and  mournful  sat  an  Indian  chief, 

In  the  red  sunset,  by  a  grassy  tomb ; 
His  eyes,  that  might  not  weep,  were  dark  with  grief, 

And  his  arms  folded  in  majestic  gloom  ; 
And  his  bow  lay  unstrung,  beneath  the  mound 
Which  sanctified  the  gorgeous  waste  around. 

For  a  pale  cross  above  its  greensward  rose, 
Telling  the  cedars  and  the  pines  that  there 

Man's  heart  and  hope  had  struggled  with  his  woes, 
And  lifted  from  the  dust  a  voice  of  prayer. 

Now  all  was  hushed — and  eve's  last  splendor  shone 

With  a  rich  sadness  on  the  attesting  stone. 

There  came  a  lonely  traveller  o'er  the  wild, 
And  he,  too,  paused  in  reverence  by  that  grave, 

Asking  the  tale  of  its  memorial,  piled 

Between  the  forests  and  the  lake's  bright  wave  ; 

Till,  as  a  wind  might  stir  a  withered  oak, 

On  the  deep  dream  of  age  his  accents  broke. 

And  the  gray  chieftain,  slowly  rising,  said — 
"  I  listened  for  the  words,  which,  years  ago. 

Passed  o'er  these  waters.     Though  the  voice  is  fled 
Which  made  them  as  a  singing  fountain's  flow, 

Yet,  when  I  sit  in  their  long-faded  track, 

Sometimes  the  forest's  murmur  gives  them  back. 

44  Askest  thou  of  him  whose  house  is  lone  beneath? 

I  was  an  eagle  in  my  youthful  pride, 
When  o'er  the  seas  he  came,  with  summer's  breath, 


35*  MISCELLANEOUS. 


To  dwell  amidst  us,  on  the  lake's  green  side. 
Many  the  times  of  flowers  have  been  since  then- 
Many,  but  bringing  naught  like  him  again  ! 

"Not  with  the  hunter's  bow  and  spear  he  came, 
O'er  the  blue  hills  to  chase  the  flying  roe ; 

Not  the  dark  glory  of  the  woods  to  tame, 

Laying  their  cedars,  like  the  corn-stalks  low; 

But  to  spread  tidings  of  all  holy  things, 

Gladdening  our  souls,  as  with  the  morning's  wings. 

"  Doth  not  yon  cypress  whisper  how  we  met, 
I  and  my  brethren  that  from  earth  have  gone, 

Under  its  boughs  to  hear  his  voice,  which  yet 

Seems  through  their  gloom  to  send  a  silvery  tone? 

He  told  of  One  the  grave's  dark  bonds  who  broke, 

And  our  hearts  burned  within  us  as  he  spoke. 

"  He  told  of  far  and  sunny  lands,  which  lie 
Beyond  the  dust  wherein  our  fathers  dwell : 

Bright  must  they  be !  for  there  are  none  that  die, 
And  none  that  weep,  and  none  that  say  '  Farewell  I  * 

He  came  to  guide  us  thither  ;  but  away 

The  Happy  called  him,  and  he  might  not  stay. 

"  We  saw  him  slowly  fade — athirst,  perchance, 
For  the  fresh  waters  of  that  lovely  clime  ; 

Yet  was  there  still  a  sunbeam  in  his  glance, 
And  on  his  gleaming  hair  no  touch  of  time — 

Therefore  we  hoped  :  but  now  the  lake  looks  dim, 

For  the  green  summer  comes — and  finds  not  him ! 

"We  gathered  rouh'd  him  in  the  dewy  hour 
Of  one  still  morn,  beneath  his  chosen  tree  ; 

From  his  clear  voice,  at  first,  the  words  of  power 
Came  low,  like  moanings  of  a  distant  sea; 

But  swelled  and  shook  the  wilderness  ere  long, 

As  if  the  spirit  of  the  breeze  grew  strong. 

"And  then  once  more  they  trembled  on  his  tongue, 
And  his  white  eyelids  fluttered,  and  his  head 

Fell  back,  and  mist  upon  his  forehead  hung 

Knowest  thou  not  how  we  pass  to  join  the  dead? 

It  is  enough  !  he  sank  upon  my  breast — 

Our  friend  that  loved  us,  he  was  gone  to  rest! 

"  We  buried  him  where  he  was  wont  to  pray, 
By  the  calm  lake,  e'en  here,  at  eventide  ; 

We  reared  this  cross  in  token  where  he  lay, 
For  on  the  cross,  he  said,  his  Lord  had  died ! 

Now  hath  he  surely  reached,  o'er  mount  and  wave, 

That  flowery  land  whose  green  turf  hides  no  grave. 


LAST  KITES.  353 

"  But  I  am  sad  !  I  mourn  the  dear  light  taken 
Back  from  my  people,  o'er  whose  place  it  shone, 

The  pathway  to  the  better  shore  forsaken, 
And  the  true  words  forgotten,  save  by  one, 

Who  hears  them  faintly  sounding  from  the  past. 

Mingled  with  death-songs  in  each  fitful  blast." 

Then  spoke  the  wanderer  forth  with  kindling  eye : 

"  Son  of  the  wilderness !  despair  thou  not, 
Though  the  bright  hour  may  seem  to  thee  gone  by, 

And  the  cloud  settled  o'er  thy  nation's  lot ! 
Heaven  darkly  works — yet,  where  the  seed  hath  bee» 
There  shall  the  fruitage,  glowing  yet,  be  seen. 

"  Hope  on,  hope  ever! — bv  the  sudden  springing 

Of  green  leaves  which  the  winter  hid  so  long ; 
And  by  the  bursts  of  free,  triumphant  singing, 

After  cold  silent  months  the  woods  among  ; 
And  by  the  rending  of  the  frozen  chains, 
Which  bound  the  glorious  rivers  on  the  plains. 

"  Deem  not  the  words  of  light  that  here  were  spoken, 

But  as  a  lovely  song,  to  leave  no  trace  : 
Yet  shall  the  gloom  which  wraps  thy  hills  be  broke*, 

And  th»  full  dayspring  rise  upon  thy  race  ! 
And  fading  mists  the  better  path  disclose, 
And  the  wide  desert  blossom  as  the  rose." 

So  by  the  cross  they  parted,  in  the  wild, 

Each  fraught  with  musings  for  life's  after  day, 

Memories  to  visit  one,  the  forest's  child, 
By  many  a  blue  stream  in  its  lonely  way  ; 

And  upon  one,  midst  busy  throngs  to  press 

Deep  thoughts  and  sad,  yet  full  of  holiness. 


LAST  RITES. 

BY  the  mighty  minster's  bell, 
Tolling  with  a  sudden  swell ; 
By  the  colors  half-mast  high, 
O'er  the  sea  hung  mournfully ; 

Know,  a  prince  hath  died! 


By  the  drum's  dull  muffled  sound, 
By  the  arms  that  sweep  the  ground 
By  the  volleying  muskets'  tone, 
Speak  ye  of  a  soldier  gone 

In  his  manhood's  pride. 


354  MISCELLANEOUS. 


By  the  chanted  psalm  that  fills 
Reverently  the  ancient  hills,1 
Learn,  that  from  his  harvests  done. 
Peasants  bear  a  brother  on 
To  his  last  repose. 

By  the  pall  of  snowy  white 
Through  the  yew-trees  gleaming  bright ; 
By  the  garland  on  the  bier, 
Weep  !  a  maiden  claims  thy  tear — 
Broken' is  the  rose! 

Which  is  the  tenderest  rite  of  all  ?— 
Buried  virgin's  coronal, 
Requiem  o'er  the  monarch's  head, 
Farewell  gun  for  warrior  dead, 

Herdsman's  funeral  hymn  ? 

Tells  not  each  of  human  woe  ? 
Each  of  hope  and  strength  brought  low? 
Number  each  with  holy  things. 
If  one  chastening  thought  it  brings 
Ere  life's  day  grow  dim  I 


THE  HEBREW  MOTHER. 

THE  rose  was  in  rich  bloom  on  Sharon's  plain. 
When  a  young  mother,  with  her  first-born,  thence 
Went  up  to  Zion ;  for  the  boy  was  vowed 
Unto  the  Temple  service.     By  the  hand 
She  led  him,  and  her  silent  soul,  the  while, 
Oft  as  the  dewy  laughter  of  his  eye 
Met  her  sweet  serious  glance,  rejoiced  to  think 
That  aught  so  pure,  so  beautiful  was  hers, 
To  bring  before  her  God.     So  passed  they  on 
O'er  Judah's  hills  ;  and  wheresoe'er  the  leaves 
Of  the  broad  sycamore  made  sounds  at  noon, 
Like  lulling  rain-drops,  or  the  olive  boughs, 
With  their  cool  dimness,  crossed  the  sultry  blue 
Of  Syria's  heaven,  she  paused,  that  he  might  rest; 
Yet  from  her  own  meek  eyelids  chased  the  sleep 
That  weighed  their  dark  fringe  down,  to  sit  and  watch 
The  crimson  deepening  o'er  his  cheek's  repose. 
As  at  a  red  flower's  heart.     And  where  a  fount 
Lay,  like  a  twilight  star,  midst  palmy  shades, 
Making  its  bank  green  gems  along  the  wild, 
There,  too,  she  lingered,  from  the  diamond  wave 
Drawing  bright  water  for  his  rosy  lips, 


1 A  custom  still  retained  at  rural  funerals  in  some  pans  of  England  and  Wales. 


THE  HEBREW  MOTHER.  355 

And  softly  parting  clusters  of  jet  curls 

To  bathe  his  brow.     At  last  the  fane  was  reached, 

The  earth's  one  sanctuary — and  rapture  hushed 

Her  bosom,  as  before  her,  through  the  day, 

It  rose,  a  mountain  of  white  marble,  steeped 

In  light  like  floating  gold.     But  when  that  hour 

Waned  to  the  farewell  moment,  when  the  boy 

Lifted,  through  rainbow-gleaming  tears,  his  eye 

Beseechingly  to  hers,  and  half  in  fear, 

Turned  from  the  white-rolled  priest,  and  round  her  am 

Clung  even  as  joy  clings — the  deep  spring-tide 

Of  nature  then  swelled  high,  and  o'er  her  child 

Bending,  her  soul  broke  forth  in  mingled  sounds 

*}f  weeping  and  sad  song.     "  Alas  ! '   she  cried, — 

*  Alas !  my  boy,  thy  gentle  grasp  is  on  me, 
The  bright  tears  quiver  in  thy  pleading  eyes  ; 

And  now  fond  thoughts  arise, 
And  silver  cords  again  to  earth  have  won  me. 
And  like  a  vine  thou  claspest  my  full  heart — 

How  shall  I  hence  depart  ? 

*  How  the  Sone  paths  retrace  where  thou  wert  playing 
So  late,  along  the  mountains,  at  my  side  ? 

And  I,  in  joyous  pride,  __ 
By  every  place  of  flowers  my  course  delaying, 
Wove,  e'en  as  pearls,  the  lilies  round  thy  hair, 

Beholding  thee  so  fair  ! 

41  And.  oh  !  the  home  whence  thy  bright  smile  hath  parted. 
Will  it  not  seem  as  if  the  sunny  day 

Turned  from  its  door  away  ? 

While  through  its  chambers  wandering,  weary-hearted, 
1  languished  for  thy  voice,  which  past  me  still 

Went  like  a  singing  rill  ? 

"  Under  the  palm-trees  thou  no  more  shah  meet  me, 
When  from  the  fount  at  evening  I  return, 

With  the  full  water-urn ; 

Nor  will  thy  sleep's  low  dove-like  breathings  greet  me, 
As  midst  the  silence  of  the  stars  I  wake, 

And  watch  for  thy  dear  sake. 

"  And  thou,  will  slumber's  dewv  clouds  fall  round  thce 
Without  thy  mother's  hand  to  smooth  thy  bed, 

Wilt  thou  not  vainly  spread 

Thine  arms,  when  darkness  as  a  veil  hath  wound  thce, 
To  fold  my  neck,  and  lift  up,  in  thy  fear, 

A  cry'which  none  shall  hear  ? 

«  What  have  I  said,  my  child  !     Will  He  not  hear  thee. 
Who  the  young  ravens  heareth  from  their  nest? 
Shall  He  not  guard  thy  rest, 


556 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


And,  in  the  hush  of  holy  midnight  near  thee, 
Breathe  o'er  thy  soul,  and  fill  its  dreams  with  joy  ? 
Thou  shall  sleep  soft,  my  boy. 

"  I  give  thee  to  thy  God — the  God  that  gave  thee, 
A  well-spring  of  deep  gladness  to  my  heart ! 

And,  precious  as  thou  art, 

And  pure  as  dew  of  Hermon,.He  shall  have  thee, 
My  own,  my  beautiful,  my  undefined ! 

And  thou  shalt  be  His  child. 

"  Therefore,  farewell !  I  go — my  soul  may  fail  me, 
As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water  brooks, 

Yearning  for  thy  sweet  looks. 

But  thou,  my  first-born,  droop  not,  nor  bewail  me ; 
Thou  in  the  Shadow  of  the  Rock  shalt  dwell, 

The  Rock  of  Strength.— Farewell ! " 


THE  WRECK. 


ALL  night  the  booming  minute-gun 

Had  pealed  along  the  deep, 
And  mournfully  the  rising  sun 

Looked  o'er  the  tide-worn  steep. 
A  bark  from  India's  coral  strand, 

Before  the  raging  blast, 
Had  veil'd  her  topsails  to  the  sand, 

And  bowed  her  noble  mast. 

The  queenly  ship ! — brave  hearts  had 
striven, 

And  true  ones  died  with  her! 
We  saw  her  mighty  cable  riven, 

Like  floating  gossamer. 
We   saw   her  proud   flag  struck  that 
morn — 

A  star  once  o'er  the  seas, — 
Her  anchor  gone,  her  deck  uptorn, 

And  sadder  things  than  these  ! 

We  saw  her  treasures  cast  away, 

The  rocks  with  pearls  were  sown  ; 
And,  strangely  sad,  the  ruby's  ray 

Flashed  out  o'er  fretted  stone. 
And  gold  was  strewn  the   wet   sands 
o'er. 

Like  ashes  by  a  breeze;  [shore 

And   gorgeous    robes — but    oh !     that 

Had  sadder  things  than  these ! 


We  saw  the  strong  man  still  and  low, 

A  crushed  reed  thrown  aside  ; 
Yet,  by  that  rigid  lip  and  brow, 

Not  without  strife  he  died. 
And  near  him  on  the  sea-weed  lay — 

Till  then  we  had  not  wept — 
But  well  our  gushing  hearts  might  say, 

That  there  a  mother  slept ! 

For  her  pale  arms  a  babe  had  pressed 

With  such  a  wreathing  grasp. 
Billows   had    dashed    o'er    that    fond 
breast, 

Yet  not  undone  the  clasp. 
Her  very  tresses  had  been  flung 

To  wrap  the  fair  child's  form, 
Where  still   their  wet  long   streamers 
hung 

All  tangled  by  the  storm. 

And  beautiful,  midst  that  wild  scene, 

Gleamed  up  the  boy's  dead  face, 
Like  slumber's,  trustingly  serene, 

In  melancholy  grace. 
Deep  in  her  bosom  lay  his  head, 

With  half-shut  violet-eye — 
He  had  known  little  of  her  dread, 

Naught  of  her  agony  1 


EVENING  PRAYER. 


357 


O  human  love!  whose  yearning  heart, 

Thtmigh  all  tilings  vainly  true, 
So  stamps  upon  thy  mortal  part 

Its  passionate  adieu — 
Surely  thou  hast  another  lot: 

There  is  some  home  for  thee,       [not 
Where   thou   shalt   rest,  remembering 

The  moaning  of  the  sea ! 


THE  TRUMPET. 

THE  trumpet's  voice  hath  roused  the 
land — 

Light  up  the  beacon  pyre  ! 
A  hundred  hills  have  seen  the  brand, 

And  waved  the  sign  of  fire. 
A  hundred  banners  to  the  breeze 

Their  gorgeous  folds  have  cast — 
And,  hark !  was  that  the  sound  of  seas  ? 

A  king  to  war  went  past 


The  chief  is  arming  in  his  hall, 

The  peasant  by  his  hearth ; 
The  mourner  hears  the  thrilling  call. 

And  rises  from  the  earth. 
The  mother  on  her  first-born  son 

Looks  with  a  boding  eye — 
They  come   not  back,   though   all 
won, 

Whose  young  hearts  leap  so  high. 


The  bard  hath  ceased  his  song,  and 
bound 

The  falchion  to  his  side ; 
E'en,  for  tha  marriage  altar  crowned, 

The  lover  quits  his  bride. 
And   all   this  haste,  and   change,  and 
fear, 

By  earthly  clarion  spread  ! — 
How  will  it  be  when  kingdoms  hear 

The  blast  that  wakes  the  dead? 


EVENING  PRAYER, 
AT  A  GIRL'S  SCHOOL. 

"  Now  in  thy  youth,  beseech  of  Him 

Who  giyeth,  upbraiding  not, 
That  his  light  in  thy  heart  becomes  not  dim, 

And  his  love  be  unforgot ; 
And  thy  God,  in  the  darkest  of  days,  will  be 
Greenness,  and  beauty,  and  strength  to  thee."— BERNARD  BABTOli 

HUSH  !  'tis  a  holy  hour.     The  quiet  room 

Seems  like  a  temple,  while  yon  soft  lamp  sheds 

A  faint  and  starry  radiance,  through  the  gloom 
And  the  sweet  stillness,  down  on  fair  young  heads, 

With  all  their  clustering  locks,  untouched  by  care, 

And  bowed,  as  flowers  are  bowed  in  night,  in  prayer. 

Gaze  on — 'tis  lovely  !  Childhood's  lip  and  cheek, 
Mantling  beneath  its  earnest  brow  of  thought! 

Gaze — yet  what  seest  thou  in  those  fair,  and  meek, 
And  fragile  things,  as  but  for  sunshine  wrought? — 

Thou  seest  what  grief  must  nurture  for  the  sky, 

What  death  must  fashion  for  eternity ! 

O  joyous  creatures  !  that  will  sink  to  rest, 

Lightly,  when  those  pure  orisons  are  done, 
As  birds,  with  slumber's  honey-dew  opprest, 


358  MISCELLANEOUS. 


Midst  the  dim  folded  leaves,  at  set  of  sun — 
Lift  up  your  hearts !  though  yet  no  sorrow  lies 
Dark  in  the  summer-heaven  of  those  clear  eyes. 

Though  fresh  within  your  breasts  the  untroubled  springs 
Of  hope  make  melody  where'er  ye  tread, 

And  o'er  your  sleep  bright  shadows,  from  the  wings 
Of  spirits  visiting  but  youth,  be  spread  ; 

Yet  in  those  flute-like  voices,  mingling  low, 

Is  woman's  tenderness — how  soon  her  woe  ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you — silent  tears  to  weep, 

And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through  suffering's  hour, 
And  sumless  riches,  from  affection's  deep, 

To  pour  on  broken  reeds — a  wasted  shower  I 
And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  them  clay, 
And  to  bewail  that  worship.    Therefore  pray  I 

Her  lot  is  on  you — to  be  found  untired, 
Watching  the  stars  out  by  the  bed  of  pain, 

With  a  pale  cheek,  and  yet  a  brow  inspired, 
And  a  true  heart  of  hope,  though  hope  be  vain; 

Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer  decay, 

And,  oh  !  to  love  through  all  things.     Therefore  pray  \ 

And  take  the  thought  of  this  calm  vesper  time, 
With  its  low  murmuring  sounds  and  silvery  light, 

On  through  the  dark  days  fading  from  their  prime, 
As  a  sweet  dew  to  keep  your  souls  from  blight ! 

Earth  will  forsake — Oh !  happy  to  have  given 

The  unbroken  heart's  first  fragrance  unto  heaven. 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH. 

*n  est  dans  la  Nature  d'aimer  a  se  livrer  k  V\d6e  meme  qu'on  redoute."— ConiNNBi 

LEAVES  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death  ! 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Eve,  for  giad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night,  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer— 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour — 
Its  feverish  hour,  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine; 

There  comes  a  day  for  grief's  o'erwhelming  power, 
A  time  for  softer  tears — but  all  are  thine. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD.  359 


Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay. 

And  smile  at  thee — hut  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death  ! 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 
When  summer  birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

"When  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain — 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  I 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie? 
Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale ! — 
They  have  one  season — all  are  ours  to  die  I 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth — and  thou  art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest — 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all — 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death  I 

i 

THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 
"  Like  the  lost  Pleiad  seen  no  more  below."— BYRON. 

AND  is  there  glory  from  the  heavens  departed  ? 
O  void  unmarked ! — thy  sisters  of  the  sky 

Still  hold  their  place  on  high, 

Though  from  its  rank  thine  orb  so  long  hath  started, 
Thou,  that  no  more  art  seen  of  mortal  eye  ! 

Hath  the  night  lost  a  gem,  the  regal  night  ? 

She  wears  her  crown  of  old  magnificence, 

Though  thou  art  exiled  thence — 
No  desert  seems  to  part  those  urns  of  light, 

Midst  the  far  depths  of  purple  gloom  intense. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


They  rise  in  joy,  the  starry  myriads  burning — 
The  shepherd  greets  them  on  his  mountains  free ; 
And  from  the  silvery  sea 

To  them  the  sailor's  wakeful  eye  is  turning — 

Unchanged  they  rise,  they  have  not  mourned  for  thee. 

Couldst  thou  be  shaken  from  thy  radiant  place, 
Even  as  a  dew-drop  from  thy  myrtle  spray, 

Swept  by  the  wind  away  ? 
Wert  thou  not  peopled  by  some  glorious  race, 
And  was  there  power  to  smite  them  with  decay  ? 

Why,  who  shall  talk  of  thrones,  of  sceptres  riven  ? 

Bowed  be  our  hearts  to  think  on  what  we  are, 

When  from  its  height  afar 
A  world  sinks  thus — and  yon  majestic  heaven 

Shines  not  the  less  for  that  one  vanished  star ! 


THE  CLIFFS  OF  DOVER. 
"  The  inviolate  Island  of  the  sage  and  free." — BYSOW. 


ROCKS  of  my  country !  let  the  cloud 
Your  crested  heights  array, 

And  rise  ye  like  a  fortress  proud 
Above  the  surge  and  spray ! 

My  spirit  greets  you  as  ye  stand, 
Breasting  the  billow's  foam  : 

Oh !  thus  forever  guard  the  land, 
The  severed  land  of  home ! 

I  have  left  blue  skies  behind, 
Lighting  up  classic  shrines, 

And  music  in  the  southern  wind, 
And  sunshine  on  the  vines. 

The  breathings  of  the  myrtle  flowers 
Have  floated  o'er  my  way  ; 

The  pilgrim's  voice,  at  vesper  hours, 
Hath  soothed  me  with  its  lay. 


The  isles  of  Greece,  the  hills  of  Spain, 
The  purple  heavens  of  Rome — 

Yes,  all  are  glorious, — yet  again 
I  bless  thee,  land  of  home  ! 

For  thine  the  Sabbath  peace,  my  land 
And  thine  the  guarded  hearth  ; 

And  thine  the  dead — the  noble  band, 
That  make  thee  holy  earth. 

Their  voices  meet  me  in  thy  breeze, 
Their  steps  are  on  thy  plains  ; 

Their  names,  by  old  majestic  trees, 
Are  whispered  round  thy  fanes. 

Their  blood  hath   mingled   with   th. 
tide  . 

Of  thine  exulting  sea : 
Oh,  be  it  still  a  joy,  a  pride, 

To  live  and  die  for  thee  ! 


THE  HOUR  OF  PRA  YER. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  MARTYRS. 


THK  kings  of  old   have    shrine    and 

tomb 

In  many  a  minster's  haughty  gloom; 
And  green,  along  the  ocean  side, 
The  mounds  arise  where  heroes  died  ; 
l!ut  show  me,  on  thy  flowery  breast, 
Earth,  where  thy  nanieloas  martyrs  rest ! 

The    thousands    that,    uncheered    by 

praise, 

Have  made  one  offering  of  their  days  ; 
For  Truth,  for  Heaven,  for  Freedom's 

sake, 

Resigned  the  bitter  cup  to  take  : 
And  silently,  in  fearless  faith, 
Bowing  their  noble  souls  to  death. 

Where  sleep  they,  Earth  ?  By  no  proud 

stone 

Their  narrow  couch  of  rest  is  known  ; 
The  still  sad  glory  of  their  name 
Hallows  no  fountain  unto  Fame  ; 
No — not  a  tree  the  record  bears 
Of  their  deep    thoughts    and  lonely 

prayers. 

Yet  haply  all  around  lie  strewed 
The  ashes  of  that  multitude : 
It  may  be  that  each  day  we  tread 
Where  thus  devoted  hearts  have  bled  ; 


And   the  young"  flowers  our  children 

sow, 
Take  root  in  holy  dust  below. 

Oh,  that  the  many-rustlinp  leaves, 
Which  round  our  homes  the  suminet 

weaves, 
Or  that  the  streams,  in  whose  gla3 

voice 

Our  own  familiar  paths  rejoice, 
Might  whisper  through  the  starry  sky, 
To  tell  where  those  blest  slumbere'r& 

lie! 

Would    not    our     inmost    hearts    be 

stilled, 
With    knowledge    of    their    presence 

filled, 

And  by  its  breathings  taught  to  prize 
The  meekness  of  self-sacrifice  ? 
— But  the  old  woods    and    sounding 

waves 
Are  silent  of  those  hidden  graves. 

Yet  what  if  no  light  footstep  there 
In  pilgrim-love  and  awe  repair, 
So  let  it  be  !    Like  him,  whose  clay 
Deep  buried  by  his  Maker  lay, 
They  sleep  in  secret, — but  their  sod, 
Unknown  to  man,  is  marked  of  God ! 


THE  HOUR  OF  PRAYER. 

M  Pregar,  pregar,  pregar, 
Ch*  altro  ponno  i  mortal!  al  pianger  nati  ? " — ALFIEKI. 


CHILD,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play, 
While  the  red  light  fades  away; 
Mother,  with  thine  earnest  eye, 
Ever  following  silently ; 
Father,  by  the  breeze  of  eve 
Called  thy  harvest-work  to  leave- 
Pray  :  ere  yet  the  dark  hours  be, 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee ! 

Traveller,  in  the  stranger's  land, 
Far  from  thine  own  household  band ; 
Mourner,  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  a  voice  from  this  world  gone  ; 


Captive,  in  whose  narrow  cell 
Sunshine  hath  not  leave  to  dwell ; 
Sailor  on  the  darkening  sea — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee  1 

Warrior,  that  from  battle  won 
Breathest  now  at  set  of  sun  ; 
Woman,  o'er  the  lowly  slain 
Weeping  on  his  burial-plain  ; 
Ye  that  triumph,  ye  that  sigh, 
Kindred  by  one  holy  tie, 
Heaven's  first  star  alike  ye  see — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  kncef 


362 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  VOICE  OF  HOME  TO  THE  PRODIGAL. 

"  Von  Baumen,  aus  Wellen,  aus  Mauem, 
Wie  ruft  es  dir  freundhch  und  lind  ; 
Was  hast  du  zu  wandern,  zu  trauern  ? — 
Komm'  spielen,  du  freundliches  Kind  !  " 

LA  MOTTK  FOUQUI 


PH  !  when  wilt  thou  return 
To  thy  spirit's  early  loves  ? 

To  the  freshness  of  the  morn, 
To  the  stillness  of  the  groves  ? 

The  summer  birds  are  calling 
Thy  household  porch  around, 

And  the  merry  waters  falling 
With  sweet  laughter  in  their  sound. 

And  a  thousand  bright-veined  flowers, 
From  their  banks  of  moss  and  fern, 

Breathe  of  the  sunny  hours — 
But  when  wilt  thou  return  ? 

Oh  I  thou  hast  wandered  long 
From  thy  home  without  a  guide  ; 

And  thy  native  woodland  song 
In  thine  altered  heart  hath  died. 

Thou  hast  flung  the  wealth  away, 
And  the  glory  of  thy  spring  ; 

And  to  thee  the  leaves'  light  play 
Is  a  long-forgotten  thing. 

But  when  wilt  thou  return  ? — 
Sweet  dews  may  freshen  soon 

The  flower,  within  whose  urn 
Too  fiercely  gazed  the  noon. 


O'er  the  image  of  the  sky, 

Which  the  lake's  clear  bosom  wore, 
Darkly  may  shadows  lie — 

But  not  for  evermore. 

Give  back  thy  heart  again 
To  the  freedom  of  the  woods, 

To  the  birds'  triumphant  strain, 
To  the  mountain  solitudes  ! 

But  when  wilt  thou  return  ? 

Along  thine  own  pure  air 
There  are  young  sweet  voices  borne— 

Oh  !  should  not  thine  bs»  there  J 

Still  at  thy  father's  board 

There  is  kept  a  place  for  thee ; 

And,  by  the  smile  restored, 
Joy  round  the  hearth  shall  be. 

Still  hath  thy  mother's  eye, 

Thy  coming  step  to  greet, 
A  look  of  days  gone  by, 

Tender  and  gravely  sweet. 

Still,  when  the  prayer  is  said, 
For  thee  kind  bosoms  yearn, 

For  thee  fond  tears  are  shed — 
Oh  1  when  wilt  thou  return  ? 


THE  WAKENING. 

How  many  thousands  are  wakening  now  ! 
Some  to  the  songs  from  the  forest  bough, 
To  the  rustling  of  lea\es  at  the  lattice  pane, 
To  the  chiming  fall  of  the  early  rain. 

And  some,  far  out  on  the  deep  mid-sea, 
To  the  dash  of  the  waves  in  their  foaming  glc-c, 
As  they  break  into  spray  on  the  ship's  tall  side, 
That  holds  through  the  tumult  her  path  of  pride. 


THE  BREEZE  FROM  SHORE.  363 

f 

And  some — oh,  well  may  their  hearts  rejoice  I — 
To  the  gentle  sound  of  a  mother's  voice  : 
Long  shall  they  yearn  for  that  kindly  tone, 
When  from  the  board  and  the  hearth  'tis  gone. 

And  some,  in  the  camp,  to  the  bugle's  breath, 
And  the  tramp  of  the  steed  on  the  echoing  heath, 
And  the  sudden  roar  of  the  hostile  gun, 
Which  tells  that  a  field  must  ere  night  be  won. 

And  some,  in  the  gloomy  convict  cell, 

To  the  dull  deep  note  of  the  warning  bell, 

As  it  heavily  calls  them  forth  to  die, 

When  the  bright  sun  mounts  in  the  laughing  sky. 

And  some  to  the  peal  of  the  hunter's  horn, 
And  some  to  the  din  from  the  city  borne, 
And  some  to  the  rolling  of  torrent  floods, 
Far  midst  old  mountains  and  solemn  woods. 

So  are  we  roused  on  this  checkered  earth : 
Each  unto  light  hath  a  daily  birth  ; 
Though  fearful  or  joyous,  though  sad  or  sweet. 
Are  the  voices  which  first  our  upspringing  meet. 

But  one  must  the  sound  be,  and  one  the  call, 
Which  from  the  dust  shall  awaken  us  all  : 
One ! — but  to  severed  and  distant  dooms, 
How  shall  the  sleepers  arise  from  the  tombs? 


THE  BREEZE  FROM  SHORE. 

I  i'oetry  reveals  to  us  the  loveliness  of  nature,  brings  back  the  freshness  of  youthful  feeling,  rt- 
vivc-s  the  relish  of  simple  pleasures,  keeps  unquenchcd  the  enthusiasm  which  warmed  the 
spring-time  of  our  being,  refines  youthful  love,  strengthens  our  interest  in  human  nature,  by 
vivid  delineations  of  its  tenderest  and  loftiest  feelings  ;  and,  through  the  brightness  of  iu 
prophetic  visions,  helps  faith  to  lay  hold  on  the  future  life."—  CHANNING.) 

JOY  is  upon  the  lonely  seas, 
When  Indian  forests  pour 
Forth,  to  the  billow  and  the  breeze 

Their  odors  from  the  shore  ; 
Toy,  when  the  soft  air's  fanning  sigh 
Btfars  on  the  breath  of  Araby. 

Oh  !  welcome  are  the  winds  that  tell 

A  wanderer  of  the  deep 
Where,  far  away,  the  jasmines  dwell. 
And  where  the  myrrh-trees  weep ! 
Blest  on  the  sounding  surge  and  foam 
Are  tidings  of  the  citron's  home  ! 


3<*4  MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  sailor  at  the  helm  they  meet, 

And  hope  his  bosom  stirs, 
Upspringing,  midst  the  waves,  to  greet 

The  fair  earth's  messengers, 
That  woo  him,  from  the  moaning  main, 
Back  to  her  glorious  bowers  again. 

They  woo  him,  whispering  lovely  tales 

Of  many  a  flowering  glade, 
And  fount's  bright  gleam,  in  island  vales 

Of  golden-fruited  shade : 
Across  his  lone  ship's  wake  they  bring 
A  vision  and  a  glow  of  spring. 

And,  O  ye  masters  of  the  lay ! 

Come  not  even  thus  your  songs 
That  meet  us  on  life's  weary  way, 

Amidst  her  toiling  throngs  ? 
Yes !  o'er  the  spirit  thus  they  bear 
A  current  of  celestial  air. 

Their  power  is  from  the  brighter  clime 

That  in  our  birth  hath  part ; 
Their  tones  are  of  the  world,  wliich  time 

Sears  not  within  the  heart  5 
They  tell  us  of  the  living  light 
In  its  green  places  ever  bright. 

They  call  us,  with  a  voice  divine, 

Back  to  our  early  love, — 
Our  vows  of  youth  at  many  a  shrine, 

Whence  far  and  fast  we  rove. 
Welcome  high  thought  and  holy  strain 
That  make  us  Truth's  and  Heaven's  again! 


THE  DYING  IMPROVISATORS.1 

*•  My  heart  shall  be  poured  over  thee— and  break." 

ProfJuey  of Da  nit. 

THE  spirit  of  my  land, 
It  visits  me  once  more  ! — though  I  must  die 
Far  from  the  myrtles  which  thy  breeze  hath  fanned, 

My  own  bright  Italy  I 

It  is,  it  is  thy  breath. 

Which  stirs  my  soul  e'en  yet,  as  wavering  flame 
Is  shaken  by  the  wind, — in  life  and  death 

Still  trembling,  yet  the  same  I 

1  Sestini,  the  Roman  Improvisatore,  when  on  his  deathbed  at  Paris,  is  said  to  have  poured 
forth  a  Farewell  to  Italy,  in  his  most  impassioned  poetry. 


THE  D  YING  IMPRO  VISA  TORE.  36$ 

Oh !  that  love's  quenchless  power 
Might  waft  my  voice  to  fill  thy  summer  sky, 
And  through  thy  groves  its  dying  music  shower, 

Italy!    Italy! 

The  nightingale  is  there, 

The  sunbeam's  glow,  the  citron-flower's  perfume, 
The  south  wind's  whisper  in  the  scented  air — 

It  will  not  pierce  the  tomb  ! 

Never,  oh  !  never  more, 

On  thy  Rome's  purple  heaven  mine  eye  shall  dwell, 
Or  watch  the  bright  waves  melt  along  thy  shore — 

My  Italy  !  farewell  ! 

Alas! — thy  hills  among 
Had  I  but  left  a  memory  of  my  name, 
Of  love  and  grief  one  deep,  true,  fervent  song, 

Unto  immortal  fame ! 

But  like  a  lute's  brief  tone, 
Like  a  roze-odor  on  the  breezes  cast, 
Like  a  swift  flush  of  dayspring,  seen  and  gone 

So  hath  my  spirit  passed — 

Pouring  itself  away 

As  a  wild  bird  amidst  the  foliage  turns 
That  which  within  him  triumphs,  beats,  or  burns, 

Into  a  fleeting  lay; 

That  swells,  and  floats,  and  dies, 
Leaving  no  echo  to  the  summer  woods 
Of  the  rich  breathings  and  impassioned  sighs 

Which  thrilled  their  solitudes. 

Yet,  yet  remember  me  I 

Friends !  that  upon  its  murmurs  oft  have  hung, 
When  from  my  bosom,  joyously  and  free, 

The  fiery  fountain  sprung. 

Under  the  dark  rich  blue 
Of  midnight  heavens,  and  on  the  star-lit  sea, 
And  when  woods  kindle  into  spring's  first  hue, 

Sweet  friends  !  remember  me  ! 

And  in  the  marble  halls, 

Where  life's  full  glow  the  dreams  of  beauty  wear, 
And  poet-thoughts  embodied  light  the  walls, 

Let  me  be  with  you  there  ! 

Fain  would  I  bind  for  you, 
My  memory  with  all  glorious  things  to  dwell ! 
•Fain  bid  all  lovely  sounds  my  name  renew — 

Sweet  friends  1  bright  land !  farewell  1 


366  MISCELLANEOUS. 


MUSIC  OF  YESTERDAY. 

'O!  mein  Geist,  ich  fiihle  es  in  mir,  strebt  nach  etwas  Ueberirdischem,  daa  keinem 
Menschen  gegonnt  ist." — TIKCK. 

THE  chord,  the  harp's  full  chord  is  hushed, 

The  voice  hath  died  away, 
Whence  music,  like  sweet  waters,  gushed 

But  yesterday. 

The  awakening  note,  the  breeze-like  swell, 

The  full  o'erswetping  tone, 
The  sounds  that  sighed  '•  Farewell,  farewell  I" 

Are  gone — all  gone  ! 

The  love,  whose  fervent  spirit  passed 

With  the  rich  measure's  flow; 
The  grief,  to  which  it  sank  at  last — 

Where  are  they  now? 

They  are  with  the  scents  by  summer's  breath 

Borne  from  a  rose  now  shed  : 
With  the  words  from  lips  long  sealed  in  death — 

Forever  fled. 

The  sea-shell  of  its  native  deep 

A  moaning  thrill  retains ; 
But  earth  and  air  no  record  keep 

Of  parted  strains. 

And  all  the  memories,  all  the  dreams, 

They  woke  in  floating  by ; 
The  tender  thoughts,  the  Elysian  gleams — 

Could  these  too  die  ? 

They  died !     As  on  the  water's  b-east 
The  ripple  melts  away, 

When  the  breeze  that  stirred  it  sinks  to  rest- 
So  perished  they! 

Mysterious  in  their  sudden  birth, 

And  mournful  in  their  close, 
Passing,  and  finding  not  on  earth 

Aim  or  repose. 

Whence  were  they ! — like  the  breath  of  flowe»» 

Why  thus  to  come  and  go  ? 
A  long,  long  journey  must  be  ours 

Ere  this  we  know 


TffE  DREAMER. 


THE   FORSAKEN  HEARTH. 

"Was  mir  fehlt?— Mir  fehlt  ja  alles, 
Bin  so  ganz  verlassen  hier!  " 

Tyrolese  Melody. 

THE  Hearth,  the  Hearth  is  desolate !  the  fire  is  quenched  and  gone 
That  into  happy  children's  eyes  once  brightly  laughing  shone ; 
The  place  where  mirth  and  music  met  is  hushed  through  day  and  night 
Dh !  for  one  kind,  one  sunny  face,  of  all  that  there  made  light ! 

I!ut  scattered  are  those  pleasant  smiles  afar  by  mount  and  shore. 
Like  gleaming  waters  from  one  spring  dispersed  to  meet  no  more. 
Those  kindred  eyes  reflect  not  now  each  other's  joy  or  mirth, 
Unbound  is  that  sweet  wreath  of  home — alas  !  the  lonely  hearth! 

The  voices  that  have  mingled  here  now  speak  another  tongue, 
Or  breathe,  perchance,  to  alien  ears  the  songs  their  mother  sung. 
Sad,  strangely  sad,  in  stranger  lands,  must  sound  each  household  tone: 
The  hearth,  the  hearth  is  desolate!  the  bright  fire  quenched  and  gone! 

But  are  they  speaking,  singing  yet,  as  in  their  days  of  glee? 

Those  voices,  are  they  lovely  still,  still  sweet  on  earth  or  sea  ? 

Oh  !  some  are  hushed,  and  some  are  changed,  and  never  shall  one  strain 

Blend  their  fraternal  cadences  triumphantly  again.  , 

And  of  the  hearts  that  here  were  linked  by  long-remembered  years, 

Alas!  the  brother  knows  not  now  when  fall  the  sister's  tears! 

One  haply  revels  at  the  feast,  while  one  may  droop  alone  : 

For  broKen  is  the  household  chain,  the  bright  fire  quenched  and  goncl 

Not  so — 'tis  not  a  broken  chain  :  thy  memory  binds  them  still, 
Thou  holy  hearth  of  other  days!  though  silent  now  and  chill. 
The  smiles,  the  tears,  the  rites,  beheld  by  thine  attesting  stone, 
Have  yet  a  living  power  to  mark  thy  children  for  thine  own. 

The  father's  voice,  the  mother's  prayer,  though  called  from  earth  away, 

With  music  rising  from  the  dead,  their  spirits  yet  shall  sway; 

And  by  the  past,  and  by  the  grave,  the  parted  yet  are  one, 

Though  the  loved  hearth  be  desolate,  the  bright  fire  quenched  and  gone! 


THE   DREAMER. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  forgetting,  possible  to  the  mind  ;  a  thousand  accidents  may,  and 
will,  interpose  a  veil  between  our  present  consciousness  and  the  secret  inscription  on  th« 
mind  ;  but  alike,  whether  veiled  or  unveiled,  the  inscription  remains  forever. 

ENGLISH  OFIUM-£ATBR. 

"  Thou  hast  been  called,  O  sleep  !  the  friend  of  woe, 
But  'tis  the  happy  who  have  called  thee  »o." 

SOUTHEY. 

PEACE  to  thy  dreams !  thou  art  slumbering  now— 
The  moonlight's  calm  is  upon  thy  brow; 


368  MISCELLANEOUS. 


All  the  deep  love  that  o'erflows  thy  breast 

Lies  'midst  the  hush  of  their  heart  at  rest — 

Like  the  scent  of  a  flower  in  its  folded  bell, 

When  eve  through  the  woodlands  hath  sighed  farewell 

Peace !    The  sad  memories  that  through  the  day 

With  a  weight  on  thy  lonely  bosom  lay, 

The  sudden  thoughts  of  the  changed  and  dead, 

That  bowed  thee  as  winds  bow  the  willows's  head, 

The  yearnings  for  faces  and  voices  gone — 

All  are  forgotten !     Sleep  on,  sleep  on ! 

Are  they  forgotten  ?     It  is  not  so ! 
Slumber  divides  not  the  heart  from  its  woe. 
E'en  now  o'er  thine  aspect  swift  changes  pass, 
Like  lights  and  shades  over  wavy  grass: 
Tremblest  thou,  Dreamer?     O  love  and  grief! 
Ye  have  storms  that  shake  e'en  the  closed-up  leaf! 

On  thy  parted  lips  there's  a  quivering  thrill, 
As  on  a  lyre  ere  its  chords  are  still ; 
On  the  long  silk  lashes  that  fringe  thine  eye, 
There's  a  large  tear  gathering  heavily — 
A  rain  from  the  clouds  of  thy  spirit  pressed: 
Sorrowful  Dreamer !  this  is  not  rest ! 

It  is  Thought  at  work  amidst  buried  hours- 
It  is  Love  keeping  vigil  o'er  perished  flowers. 
—Oh,  we  bear  within  us  mysterious  things  ! 
Of  Memory  and  Anguish,  unfathomed  springs 
And  Passion — those  gulfs  of  the  heart  to  fill 
With  bitter  waves,  which  it  ne'er  may  still. 

Well  might  we  pause  ere  we  gave  them  sway, 
Flinging  the  peace  of  our  couch  away  I 
Well  might  we  look  on  our  souls  in  fear — 
They  find  no  fount  of  oblivion  here  ! 
They  forget  not,  the  mantle  of  sleep  beneath— 
How  know  we  if  under  the  wings  of  death  ? 


THE   WINGS   OF  THE   DOVE. 
1  Oh,  that  I  had  wings  like  a  dove,  for  then  would  I  fly  away  and  be  at  rest."—  PSALM  ir, 

OH,  for  thy  wings,  thou  dove! 
Now  sailing  by  with  sunshine  on  thy  breast; 

That,  borne  like  thee  above, 
I  too  might  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  DOVE  369 

Where  wilt  thou  fold  those  plumes, 
Bird  of  the  forest-shadows,  holiest  bird  ? 

In  what  rich  leafy  glooms, 
By  the  sweet  voice  of  hidden  waters  stirred  ? 

Over  what  blessed  home, 
What  roof  with  dark,  deep  summer  foliage  crowned, 

O  fair  as  ocean's  foam  ! 
Shall  thy  bright  bosom  shed  a  gleam  around  ? 

Or  seekest  thou  some  old  shrine 
Of  nymph  or  saint,  no  more  by  votary  wooed, 

Though  still,  as  if  divine, 
•  Breathing  a  spirit  o'er  the  solitude  ? 

Yet  wherefore  ask  thy  way  ? 
Blest,  ever  blest,  whate'er  its  aim,  thou  art! 

Unto  the  greenwood  spray, 
Bearing  no  dark  remembrance  at  thy  heart  1 

No  echoes  that  will  blend 
A  sadness  with  the  whispers  of  the  grove; 

No  memory  of  a  friend 
Far  off,  or  dead,  or  changed  to  thee,  thou  dove  I 

Oh !  to  some  cool  recess 
Take,  take  me  with  thee  on  the  summer  wind. 

Leaving  the  weariness 
And  all  the  fever  of  this  life  behind  : 

The  aching  and  the  void 
Within  the  heart,  whereunto  none  reply, 

The  young  bright  hopes  destroyed— 
Bird!  bear  me  with  thee  through  the  sunny  sky  I 

Wild  wish,  and  longing  vain, 
And  brief  upspringing  to  be  glad  and  free! 

Go  to  thy  woodland  reign : 
My  soul  is  bound  and  held — I  may  not  flee. 

For  even  by  all  the  fears 
And  thoughts  that  haunt  my  dreams — untold,  unknown 

And  burning  woman's  tears, 
Poured  from  mine  eyes  in  silence  and  alone  ; 

Had  I  thy  wings,  thou  dove  ! 
High  'midst  the  gorgeous  isles  of  cloud  to  soar, 

Soon  the  strong  cords  of  love 
Would  draw  me  earthwards — homewards — yet  once  more. 


7°  MISCELLANEOUS, 

PSYCHE   LORNE   BY   ZEPHYRS   TO   THE   ISLAND   OF 
PLEASURE.' 

Souvent  1'ame,  fortifie'e  par  lar  contemplation  des  choses  divines,  voudroit  d^ployer  ses  ailes 
vers  le  ciel.  Ello  croit  qu'au  terme  de  sa  carriere  un  ndeau  va  se  lever  pour  lui  decouvrir  des 
scenes  de  lurniere :  rnais  quand  la  mort  louche  son  corps  perissable,  elle  jette  un  regard  en 
arriere  vers  les  plaisirs  terrestres  et  vers  ses  compagnes  mortelles." 


SCHLBGEL,  translated  by  MADAME  DE  STAEL- 


FEARFULLY  and  mournfully 
Thou  biddst  the  earth  farewell ; 

And  yet  thou'rt  passing,  loveliest  one  1 
In  a  brighter  land  to  dwell. 

Ascend,  ascend  rejoicing  1 
The  sunshine  of  that  shore 

Around  thcc,  as  a  glorious  robe, 
Shall  stream  forevermore. 

The  breezy  music  wandering 
There  through  the  Elysian  sky, 

Hath  no  deep  tone  that  seems  to  float 
From  a  happier  time  gone  by. 

And  there  the  day's  last  crimson 
Gives  no  sad  memories  birth, 

No  thought  of  dead  or  distant  friends, 
Or  partings — as  on  earth. 

Yet  fearfully  and  mournfully 
Thou  biddst  that  earth  farewell, 

Although  thou'rt  passing,  loveliest  one ! 
In  a  brighter  land  to  dwell. 

A  land  where  all  is  deathless — 

The  sunny  wave's  repose, 
The  wood  with  its  rich  melodies, 

The  summer  and  its  rose : 


A  land  that  sees  no  parting, 
That  hears  no  sound  of  sighs, 

That  waits  thee  with  immortal  air — 
Lift,  lift  those  anxious  eyes ! 

Oh  !  how  like  thee,  thou  trembler  ! 

Man's  spirit  fondly  clings 
With  timid  'ove,  to  this,  its  world 

Of  old  familiar  things  ! 

We  pant,  we  thirst  for  fountains 

That  gush  not  here  below ! 
On,  on  we  toil,  allured  by  dreams 

Of  the  living  water's  flow  : 

We  pine  for  kindred  natures 

To  mingle  with  our  own  ; 
For  communings  more  full  and  high 

Than  aught  by  mortal  known  : 

We  strive  with  brief  aspirings 
Against  our  bonds  in  vain  ; 

Yet  summoned  to  be  free  at  last, 
We  shrink — and  clasp  our  chain  ; 

And  fearfully  and  mournfully 

We  bid  the  earth  farewell, 
Though  passing  from   its  mists,  lik» 
thee, 

In  a  brighter  world  to  dwell. 


THE  BOON  OF  MEMORY. 
"  Many  things  answered  me." — Manfred. 

I  GO,  I  go  ! — and  must  mine  image  fade 

From  the  green  spots  wherein  my  childhood  played, 

By  my  own  streams  ? 

Must  my  life  part  from  each  familiar  place, 
As  a  bird's  song,  that  leaves  the  woods  no  trace 

Of  its  lone  themes  ? 


1  Written  for  a  picture  in  which  Psyche,  on  her  flight  upwards,  is  represcptcd  looking  bads 
sadly  and  anxiously  to  the  earth. 


THE  BOON  OF  MEMOR  Y.  371 

Will  the  friend  pass  my  dwelling,  and  forget 
The  welcomes  there,  the  hours  when  we  have  met 

In  grief  or  glee  ? 

All  the  sweet  counsel,  the  commur.ion  high, 
The  kindly  words  of  trust,  in  days  gone  by, 

Poured  full  and  free  ? 

A  boon,  a  talisman,  O  Memory !  give, 

To  shrine  my  name  in  hearts  where  I  would  live 

Forevermore  I 

Bid  the  wind  speak  of  me  where  I  have  dwelt, 
Bid  the  stream's  voice,  of  all  my  soul  hath  felt, 

A  thought  restore ! 

In  the  rich  rose,  whose  bloom  I  loved  so  well, 
In  the  dim  brooding  violet  of  the  dell, 

Set  deep  that  thought ; 
And  let  the  sunset's  melancholy  glow, 
And  let  the  spring's  first  whisper,  faint  and  low, 
With  me  be  fraught ! 

An  1  Memory  answered  me  : — "  Wild  wish,  and  vain  f 
1  have  no  hues  the  loveliest  to  detain 

In  the  heart's  core. 

The  place  they  held  in  bosoms  all  their  own, 
Soon  with  new  shadows  filled,  new  flowers  o'ergrown, 

Is  theirs  no  more." 

Hast  than  such  power,  O  Love  ?     And  Love  replied  : 
— "  It  is  not  mine  1     Pour  out  thy  soul's  full  tide 

Of  hope  and  trust, 

Prayer,  tear,  devotedness,  that  boon  to  gain— 
'Tis  but  to  write,  with  the  heart's  fiery  rain, 

Wild  words  on  dust  I  " 

Song,  is  the  gift  with  thee  ?     I  ask  a  lay, 
Soft,  fervent,  deep,  that  will  not  pass  away 

From  the  still  breast ; 

Filled  with  a  tone — oh'!  not  for  deathless  fame, 
But  a  sweet  haunting  murmur  of  my  name, 

Where  it  would  rest. 

And  Song  made  answer  : — "  It  is  not  in  me, 
Though  called  immortal ;  though  my  gifts  may  be 

All  but  divine. 

A  place  of  lonely  brightness  I  can  give  : 
A  changeless  one,  where  thou  with  Love  wouldst  live— 

This  is  not  mine !  " 

Death,  Death  !  wilt  thou  the  restless  wish  fulfil  ? 
And  Death,  the  Strong  One,  spoke  : — "  I  can  but  still 
Each  vain  regret 


372  MISCELLANEOUS. 

What  if  forgotten  ? — All  thy  soul  would  crave, 
Thou,  too,  within  the  mantle  of  the  grave, 
Wilt  soon  forget." 

Then  did  my  heart  in  lone  faint  sadness  die, 
As  from  all  nature's  voices  one  reply, 

But  one — was  given. 

"  Earth  has  no  heart,  fond  dreamer !  with  a  tone 
To  send  thee  back  the  spirit  of  thine  own- 
Seek  it  in  heaven." 


I  GO,  SWEET  FRIENDS ! 

I  GO,  sweet  friends  !  yet  think  of  me 

When  spring's  young  voice  awakes  the  flowers; 
For  we  have  wandered  far  and  free 

In  those  bright  hours,  the  violet's  hours. 

I  go ;  but  when  you  pause  to  hear 
From  distant  hills  the  Sabbath-bell 

On  summer-winds  float  silvery  clear, 
Think  on  me  then — I  loved  it  well  I 

Forget  me  not  around  your  hearth, 
When  cheerly  smiles  the  ruddy  blaze ; 

For  dear  hath  been  ils  evening  mirth 
To  me,  sweet  friends,  In  other  days. 

And  oh  !  when  music's  voice  is  heard 

To  nielt  in  strains  of  parting  woe, 
When  hearts  to  love  and  grief  are  stirred, 

Think  of  me  then !     I  go,  I  go  J 


ANGEL  VISITS. 

**  No  more  of  talk  where  God  or  angel  guest. 
With  man,  as  with  his  friend,  familiar  used 
To  sit  indulgent,  and  with  him  partake 
Rural  repast."  MILTOH. 

ARE  ye  forever  to  your  skies  departed  ? 

Oh  !  will  ye  visit  this  dim  world  no  more  ? 
Ye,  whose  bright  wings  a  solemn  splendor  darted 

Through  Eden's  fresh  and  flowering  shades  of  yore? 
Now  are  the  fountains  dried  on  that  sweet  spot, 

And  ye — our  faded  earth  beholds  you  not  I 


ANGEL  VISITS. 


373 


Yet,  by  your  shining  eyes  not  all  forsaken, 

Man  wandered  from  his  Paradise  away; 
Ye,  from  forgetfulness  his  heart  to  waken, 

Came  down,  high  guests  !  in  many  a  later  day. 
And  with  the  patriarchs,  under  vine  or  oak, 
'Midst  noontide  calm  or  hush  of  evening,  spoke. 

From  you,  the  veil  of  midnight  darkness  rending, 
Came  the  rich  mysteries  to  the  sleeper's  eye, 

That  saw  your  host's  ascending  and  descending 
On  those  bright  steps  between  the  earth  and  sky  i 

Trembling  he  woke,  and  bowed  o'er  glory's  trace, 

And  worshipped  awe-struck,  in  that  fearful  place. 

By  Chebar's  '  brook  ye  passed,  such  radiance  wearing 

As  mortal  vision  might  but  ill  endure ; 
Along  the  stream  the  living  chariot  bearing, 

With  its  high  crystal  arch,  intensely  pure  ; 
And  the  dread  rushing  of  your  wings  that  hour, 
Was  like  the  noise  of  waters  in  their  power. 

But  in  the  Olive  Mount,  by  night  appearing, 

'Midst  the  dim  leaves,  your  holiest  work  was  done. 

Whose  was  the  voice  that  came  divinely  cheering, 
Fraught  with  the  breath  of  God,  to  aid  his  Son? 

— Haply  of  those  that,  on  the  moonlit  plains,       % 

Wafted  good  tidings  unto  Syrian  swains. 

Yet  one  more  task  was  yours  !     Your  heavenly  dwelling 
Ye  left,  and  by  the  unsealed  sepulchral  stone, 

In  glorious  raiment,  sat ;  the  weepers  telling, 

That  He  they  sought  had  triumphed,  and  was  gon< 

Now  have  ye  left  us  for  the  brighter  shore ; 

Your  presence  lights  the  lonely  groves  no  more. 

But  may  ye  not,  unseen,  around  us  hover, 

With  gentle  promptings  and  sweet  influence  yet, 

Though  the  fresh  glory  of  those  days  be  over, 

When,  'midst  the  palm-trees,  man  your  footsteps  met,' 

Are  ye  not  near,  when  faith  and  hope  rise  high, 

When  love,  by  strength,  o'ermasters  agony  ? 

Are  ye  not  near  when  sorrow,  unrepining, 

Yields  up  life's  treasures  unto  Him  who  gave  ? 

When  martyrs,  all  things  for  his  sake  resigning, 
Lead  on  the  march  of  death,  serenely  brave  ? 

Dreams!     But  a  deeper  thought  our  souls  may  fill ; 

One,  One  is  near — a  spirit  holier  still ! 

'  Kick.  x. 


374 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


IVY  SONG. 

WRITTEN    ON    RECEIVING    SOME    IVY    LEAVES   GATHERED   FROM    THE    RUINED 
CASTLE  OK   RHEINKELS,    ON    THE    RHINE.  • 


OH  !    how  could    Fancy   crown   with 

thte 

In  ancient  days  the  God  of  AVine, 
And  bid  thee  at  the  banquet  be 

Companion  of  the  vine  ? 
Thy  home,  wild  plant !  is  where  each 

sound 

Of  revelry  hath  long  been  o'er. 
Where  song's  full  notes  once  pealed 

around, 
But  now  are  heard  no  more. 

The  Roman  on  his  battle-plains, 

Where  kings  before  his  eagles  bent, 
Entwined  thee  with  exulting  strains 

Around  the  victor's  tent 
Yet  there,  though  fresh  in  glossy  green, 

Triumphantly     thy    boughs    might 

wave, 
Better  thou  lovest  the  silent  scene 

Around  the  vjctor's  grave. 

Where  sleep  the  sons  of  ages  flown, 

The  bards  and  heroes  of  the  past ; 
Where,   through   the    halls   of    glory 
gone, 

Murmurs  the  wintry  blast ; 
Where  years  are  hastening  to  efface 

Each  record  of  the  grand  and  fair ; 
Thou,  in  thy  solitary  grace, 

Wreath  of  the  tomb  !  art  there. 

Oh !  many  a  temple,  once  sublime, 

Beneath  a  blue  Italian  sky, 
Hath  naught  of  beauty  left  by  time, 

Save  thy  wild  tapestry  ! 
And,  reared  'midst  crags  and  clouds, 
'tis  thine 

To  wave   where   banners   wave  of 

yore, 
O'er  towers  that  crest  the  noble  Rhine, 

Along  his  rocky  shore. 

High  from  the  fields  of  air  look  down 
Those  eyries  of  a  vanished  race — 


Homes  of  the  might",  whose  renown 

Hath  passed,  and  left  no  trace. 
But  there  thou  art ! — thy  foliage  bright 
Unchanged  the  mountain  storm  can 

brave ; 
Thou,   that    wilt   climb     the     loftiest 

height, 
Or  deck  the  humblest  grave  1 

Tis   still   the    same  I      Where'er    we 

tread. 
The   wrecks   of   human    power  we 

see — 
The  marvels  of  all  ages  fled 

Left  to  decay  and  thee ! 
And  still  let  man  his  fabric  rear, 
August,     in      beauty,     grace,    and 

strength  ; 

Days  pass — thou  ivy  never  sere !  *~ 
And  all  is  thine  at  length  ! 


TO  ONE  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S 
CHILDREN  ON  HIS  BIRTH 
DAY. 

WHERE  sucks  the  bee  now  ?    Summer 

is  flying,  [lying ; 

Leaves  round  the  elm-tree  faded  arc 
Violets  are  gone  from  their  grassy  dell, 
With  the  cowslip  cups,  where  the 

fairies  dwell ; 
The  rose  from  the  garden  hath  passed 

away — 

Vet  happy,  fair  lx>y.  is  thy  natal  day ! 
For  love  bids   it  welcome,  the    love 

which  hath  smiled 
Ever  around  thee,  my  gentle  child! 
Watching  thy  footsteps,  and  guarding 

thy  bed,  [head. 

And  pouring  out  joy  on  thy  sunny 
Roses  may  vanish,  but  this  will  stay — 
Happy  and  bright  is  thy  natal  day  ! 


1  ''  Ye  myrtles  brown,  and  ivy  never  iere.1* 

LVCIUAS. 


ZPITAPft. 


375 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

THOU  w.ikest  from  rosy  sleep,  to  play 
With  bounding  heart,  my  boy! 

Before  thee  lies  a  long  bright  day 
Of  summer' and  of  joy. 

Thou  hast  no  heavy  thought  or  dream 

To  cloud  thy  fearless  eye : 
Long  be  it  thus ! — life's  early  stream 

Should  still  reflect  the  sky. 

Yet,  ere  the  cares  of  life  lie  dim 
On  thy  young  spirit's  wings 

Now  in  thy  morn  forgot  not  Him 
From    whom,    each    pure    thought 
springs. 

So,  in  the  onward  vale  of  tears, 
Where'er  thy  path  may  be. 

When   strength   hath  bowed   to    evil 

years, 
He  will  remember  thee  ! 


CHRIST    STILLING    THE   TEM- 
PEST. 

FEAR  was  within  the  tossing  bark 
When  the  stormy  winds  grew  loud, 


And  waves   came   rolling    high    and 

dark, 
And  the  tall  mast  was  bowed. 

And   men   stood   breathless   in    theil 
dread. 

And  baffled  in  their  skill ; 
But  One  was  there,  who  rose  and  said 

To  the  wild  sea — Be  still! 

And  the  wind  ceased — it  ceased  !  that 
word 

Passed  through  the  gloomy  sky  ; 
The  troubled  billows  knew  their  Lord, 

And  fell  beneath  His  eye. 

And  slumber  settled  on  the  deep, 

And  silence  on  the  blast ; 
They  sank,   as   flowers    that  fold  to 
sleep 

When  sultry  day  is  past. 

O  Thou  !  that  in  its  wildest  hour 
Didst  rule  the  tempest's  mood. 

Send  thy  meek  spirit  forth  in  power, 
Soft  on  our  souls  to  brood ! 

Thou   that    didst    bow   the    billow's 
pride 

Thy  mandate  to  fulfil ! 
Oh,  speak  to  passion's  raging  tide, 

Speak,  and  say,  Peace  be  still, !" 


OVER  THE  CRAVE  OF  TWO  BROTHERS,  A  CHILD  AND  A  YOUTH. 

THOU,  that  canst  gaze  upon  thine  own  fair  boy. 
And  hear  his  prayer's  low  murmur  at  thy  knee, 

And  o'er  his  slumber  bend  in  breathless  joy, 
Come  to  this  tomb  ! — it  hath  a  voice  for  thee! 

Pray  !   Thou  art  blest — ask  strength  for  sorrow's  hour: 
Love,  deep  as  thine,  lays  here  its  broken  flower. 

Thou  that  art  gathering  from  the  smile  of  youth 
Thy  thousand  hopes,  rejoicing  to  behold 

All  the  heart's  depths  before  thee  bright  with  truth, 
All  the  mind's  treasures  silently  unfold, 

Look  on  this  tomb!— for  thee,  too,  speaks  the  grave, 

Where  God  hath  sealed  the  fount  of  hope  he  gave. 


MONUMENTAL  INSCRIPTION. 

EARTH  !  guard  what  here  we  lay  in  holy  trust, 
That  which  hath  left  our  home  a  darkened  place, 

Wanting  the  form,  the  smile,  now  veiled  with  dust,' 
The  light  departed  with  our  loveliest  face. 

Yet  from  thy  bonds  our  sorrow's  hope  is  free — 

\Ve  have  but  lent  the  beautiful  to  thee. 

But  thou,  O  Heaven  !   keep,  keep  what  thau  hast  taken, 
And  with  our  treasure  keep  our  hearts  on  high  ; 

The  spirit  meek,  and  yet  by  pain  unshaken, 
The  faith,  the  love,  the  lofty  constancy — 

Guide  us  where  these  are  with  our  sisters  Sown — 

They  were  of  Thee,  and  thou  hast  claimed  thmc  own  I 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA. 

THOU  art  sounding  on,  thou  mighty  seal 

Forever  and  the  same ; 
The  ancient  rocks  yet  ring  to  thee — 

Those  thunders  naught  can  tame. 

Oh  !  many  a  glorious  voice  is  gone 

From  tne  rich  bowers  of  earth. 
And  hushed  is  many  a  lovely  one 

Of  mournful  ness  or  mirth. 

•The  Dorian  flute  that  sighed  of  yore 

Along  the  wave,  is  still ; 
The  harp  of  Judah  peals  no  more 

On  Zion's  awful  hill. 

The  Memnon's  lyre  hath  lost  the  chord 

That  breathed  the  mystic  tone  ; 
And  the  songs  at  Rome''s  high  triumph  poured, 

Are  with  her  eagles  flown.. 

And  mute  the  Moorish  horn  that  rang 

O'er  stream  and  mountain  free  ; 
And  the  hymn  the  leagued  Crusaders  sang 

Hath  died  in  Galilee. 

But  thou  art  swelling  on,  thou  deep ! 

Through  many  an  olden  clime, 
Thy  billowy  anthem,  ne'er  to  sleep 

Until  the  close  of  time. 


A  DIRGE.  37; 

Thou  liftest  up  thy  solemn  voice 

To  every  wind  and  sky, 
And  all  our  earth's  green  shores  rejoice 

In  that  one  harmony. 

It  fills  the  noontide's  calm  profound, 

The  sunset's  heaven  of  gold ; 
And  the  still  midnight  hears  the  sound. 

Even  as  first  it  rolled. 

Let  there  be  silence,  deep  and  strange, 
Where  sceptred  cities  rose! 

Thou  speakest  of  One  who  doth  not  change- 
So  may  our  hearts  repose. 


THE  CHILD  AND  DOVE. 

SUGGESTED  BY  CHANTREY'S  STATUE  OF  LADY  LOUISA   RUSSELL, 

THOU  art  a  thing  on  our  dreams  to  rise, 
Midst  the  echoes  of  long-lost  melodies, 
And  to  fling  bright  dew  from  the  morning  back, 
Fair  form  I  on  each  image  of  childhood's  track. 

Thou  art  a  thing  to  recall  the  hours 
When  the  love  of  our  souls  was  on  leaves  and  flowers, 
When  a  world  was  our  own  in  some  dim  sweet  grove, 
And  treasure  untold  in  one  captive  dove. 

Are  they  gone  ?  can  we  think  it  while  thmt  art  there, 

Thou  joyous  child  with  the  clustering  hair? 

Is  it  not  spring  that  indeed  breathes  free 

And  fresh  o'er  each  thought,  while  we  gaze  on  thee  ? 

No !  never  more  may  we  smile  as  thou 
Sheddest  round  smiles  from  thy  sunny  brow ; 
Vet  something  it  is,  in  our  hearts  to  shrine 
A  memory  of  beauty  undimmed  as  thine — 

To  have  met  the  joy  of  thy  speaking  face, 

To  have  felt  the  spell  of  thy  breezy  grace, 

To  have  lingered  before  thee,  and  turned,  and  borne 

One  vision  away  of  the  cloudless  morn. 


A  DIRGE. 

CALM  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 
Young  spirit,  rest  thcc  now ! 

Even  while  with  us  thy  footstep  trod. 
His  seal  was  on  thy  brow- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Dust,  to  its  narrow  house  beneath  I 
Soul,  to  its  place  on  high  !  — 

They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death, 
No  more  may  fear  to  die. 

Lone  are  the  paths,  and  sad  the  bowers, 
Whence  thy  meek  smile  is  gone  ; 

But  oh  !  —  a  brighter  home  than  ours, 
In  heaven  is  now  thine  own. 


SCENE  IN  A  DALECARLIAN  MINE. 

Oh !  fondly,  fervently,  those  two  had  loved, 
Had  mingled  minds  in  Love's  own  perfect  trust ; 
Had  watched  bright  sunsets,  dreamt  of  blissful  years ; 
And  thus  they  met." 

*  HASTE,  with  your  torches,  haste  !  make  firelight  round  !  ** 

They  speed,  they  press  :  what  hath  the  miner  found  ? 

Relic  or  treasure — giant  sword  of  old  ? 

Gems  bedded  deep — rich  veins  of  burning  gold  ? 

— Not  so— the  dead,  the  dead  1    An  awe-struck  band 

In  silence  gathering  round  the  silent  stand, 

Chained  by  one  feeling,  hushing  e'en  their  breath, 

Before  the  thing  that,  in  the  might  of  death, 

Fearful,  yet  beautiful,  amidst  them  lay — 

A  sleeper,  dreaming  not! — a  youth  with  hair 

Making  a  sunny  gleam  (how  sadly  fair!) 

O'er  his  cold  brow  :  no  shadow  of  decay 

Had  touched  those  pale,  bright  features — yet  he  wore 

A  mien  of  other  days,  a  garb  of  yore. 

Who  could  unfold  that  mystery?    From  the  throng 

A  woman  wildly  broke  ;  her  eye  was  dim, 

As  if  through  many  tears,  through  vigils  long, 

Through  weary  strainings : — all  had  been  for  him  ! 

Those  two  had  loved !    And  there  he  lay,  the  dead, 

In  his  youth's  flower — and  she,  the  living,  stood 

With  her  gray  hair,  whence  hue  and  gloss  had  fled — 

And  wasted  form,  and  cheek,  whose  flushing  blood 

Had  long  since  ebbed — a  meeting  .sad  and  strange ! 

— Oh  !  are  not  meetings  in  this  world  of  change 

Sadder  than  partings  oft !     She  stood  there,  still, 

And  mute,  and  gazing — all  her  soul  to  fill 

With  the  loved  face  once  more — the  young,  fair  face, 

Midst  that  rude  cavern,  touched  with  sculpture's  grace, 

By  torchlight  and  by  death  :  until  at  last 

From  her  deep  heart  the  spirit  of  the  past 

Gushed  in  low  broken  tones — "  And  there  thou  art ! 

And  thus  we  meet,  that  loved,  and  did  but  part 


ENGLISH  SOLDIERS  SONG  OP  MEMORY.  379 

As  for  a  few  brief  hours  f    My  friend,  my  friend  I 
First  love,  and  only  one  !     Is  this  the  end 
Of  hope  deferred,  youth  blighted?    Yet  thy  brow 
Still  wears  its  own  proud  beauty,  and  thy  check 
Smiles — how  unchanged  ! — while  I,  the  worn,  and  weak, 
And  faded — oh  !  thou  wouldst  but  scorn  me  now, 
If  thou  couldst  look  on  me  ! — a  withered  leaf. 
Seared — though  for  thy  %ake — by  the  blast  of  grief! 
Better  to  see  thee  thus !     For  thou  didst  go 
Hearing  my  image  on  thy  heart,  I  know, 
Unto  the  dead.     My  Ulric  !  through  the  night 
How  have  I  called  thee !     With  the  morning  light 
How  have  I  watched  for  thee  ! — wept,  wandered,  prayed 
Met  the  fierce  mountain-tempest,  undismayed, 
In  search  of  thee  ! — bound  my  worn  life  to  one — 
One  torturing  hope  !     Now  let  me  die  !     'Tis  gone. 
Take  thy  betrothed  ! "  '  And  on  his  breast  she  fell, 
— Oh  !  since  their  youth's  last  passionate  farewell, 
How  changed  in  all  but  love  ! — the  true,  the  strong, 
Joining  in  death  whom  life  had  parted  long  ! 
They  had  one  grave — one  lonely  bridal-bed, 
No  friend,  no  kinsman  there  a  tear  to  shed  ! 
His  name  had  ceased — her  heart  outlived  each  tie, 
Once  more  to  look  on  that  dead  face,  and  die  1 


ENGLISH  SOLDIER'S  SONG  OF  MEMORY. 

TO   THE   AIR   OF   "  AM    RHEIN,   AM    RHEIN  !  " 

SING,  sing  in  memory  of  the  brave  departed, 

Let  song  and  wine  be  poured  I 
Pledge  to  their  fame,  the  free  and  fearless  hearted, 

Our  brethren  of  the  sword  I 

Oft  at  the  feast,  and  in  the  fight,  their  voices 

Have  mingled  with  our  own  ; 
Fill  high  the  cup  !  but  when  the  soul  rejoices, 

Forget  not  who  are  gone. 

They  that  stood  with  us,  midst  the  dead  and  dying. 

On  Albuera's  plain ; 
They  that  beside  us  cheerily  tracked  the  flying, 

Far  o'er  the  hills  of  Spain ; 

They  that  amidst  us,  when  the  shells  were  showering 

From  old  Rodrigo's  wall, 
The  rampart  scaled,  through  clouds  of  battle  towering, 

First,  first  at  Victory's  call ; 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


They  that  upheld  the  banners,  proudly  waving, 
In  Roncesvalles*  dell, 

With  England's  blood,  the  southern  vineyards  lav  ing- 
Forget  not  how  they  fell ! 

Sing,  sing  in  memory  of  the  brave  departed, 

Let  song  and  wine  be  poured ! 
Pledge  to  their  fame,  the  free  and  fearless  hearted, 

Our  brethren  of  the  sword  1 


HAUNTED  GROUND. 

**  And  slight,  withal,  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  forever — it  may  be  a  sound, 
A  tone  of  music,  summer  eve,  or  spring, 
A  flower — the  wind — the  ocean — which  shall  wound, 
Striking  the  electric  train,  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound." 

BYRON. 

YES,  it  is  haunted,  this  quiet  scene, 
Fair  as  it  looks,  and  all  softly  green ; 
Yet  fear  thou  not — for  the  spell  is  thrown, 
And  the  might  of  the  shadow,  on  me  alone. 

Are  thy  thoughts  wandering  to  elves  and  fays, 
And  spirits  that  dwell  where  the  water  plays  ? 
Oh  I  in  the  heart  there  are  stronger  powers, 
That  sway,  though  viewless,  this  world  of  ours ! 

Have  I  not  lived  midst  these  lonely  dells, 
And  loved"  and  sorrowed,  and  heard  farewells, 
And  learned  in  my  own  deep  soul  to  look, 
And  tremble  before,  that  mysterious  book  ? 

Have  I  not.  under  these  whispering  leaves, 
Woven  such  dreams  as  the  young  heart,  weaves  ? 
Shadows — yet  unto  which  life  seemed  bound  ; 
And  is  it  not — is  it  not  haunted  ground  ? 

Must  I  not  hear  what  thou  hearest  not, 
Troubling  the  air  of  the  sunny  spot  ? 
Is  there  not  something  to  rouse  but  me, 
Told  by  the  rustling  of  every  tree  ? 

Song  hath  been  here,  with  its  flow  of  thought ; 
Love,  with  its  passionate  visions  fraught ; 
Death,  breathing  stillness  and  sadness  round  ; 
And  is  it  not — is  it  not  haunted  ground  * 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  FORESTS.  381 

Are  there  no  phantoms,  but  such  as  come 

By  night  from  the  darkness  that  wraps  the  tomb  ? 

A  sound,  a  scent,  or  a  whispering  breeze, 

Can  summon  up  mightier  far  than  these  I 

But  I  may  not  linger  amidst  them  here  I 
Lovely  they  are,  and  yet  things  to  fear ; 
Passing  and  leaving  a  weight  behind, 
And  a  thrill  on  the  chords  of  the  stricken  mind 

Away,  away  ! — that  my  soul  may  soar 

As  a  free  bird  of  blue  skies  once  more  ! 

Here  from  its  wing  it  may  never  cast 

The  chain  by  those  spirits  brought  back  from  the  past. 

Doubt  it  not — smile  not — but  go  thou,  too, 
Look  on  the  scenes  where  thy  childhood  grew — 
Where  thou  hast  prayed  at  thy  mother's  knee, 
Where  thou  hast  roved  with  thy  brethren  free; 

Go  thou,  when  life  unto  thee  is  changed, 
Friends  thou  hast  loved  as  thy  soul,  estranged ; 
When  from  the  idols  thy  heart  hath  made, 
Thou  hast  seen  the  colors  of  giory  fade. 

Oh  !  painfully  then,  by  the  wind's  low  sigh, 

By  the  voice  of  the  stream,  by  the  flower-cup's  dye, 

By  a  thousand  tokens  of  sight  and  sound, 

Thou  wilt  feel  thou  art  treading  on  haunted  ground. 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  FORESTS. 

WRITTEN    AFTER  READING  THE  MEMOIRS  OF  JOHN   HUNTER. 

Is  not  thy  heart  far  off  amidst  the  woods, 
Where  the  Red  Indian  lays  his  father's  dust, 

And,  by  the  rushing  of  the  torrent  floods, 
To  the  Great  Spirit  bows  in  silent  trust  ? 

Doth  not  thy  soul  o'ersweep  the  foaming  main, 

To  pour  itself  upon  the  wilds  again  ? 

They  are  gone  forth,  the  desert's  warrior  race, 
By  stormy  lakes  to  track  the  elk  and  roe ; 

But  where  art  thou,  the  swift  one  in  the  chase, 
With  thy  free  footstep  and  unfailing  bow? 

Their  singing  shafts  have  reached  the  panther's  lair. 

And  where  art  thou  ?— thine  arrows  are  not  there. 

They  rest  beside  their  streams— the  spoil  is  won— 
They  hang  their  spears  upon  the  cypress  bough  ; 
The  night-fires  blaze,  the  hunter's  work  is  done — 


382  MISCELLANEOUS. 

They  hear  the  tales  of  old — but  where  art  thou  ? 
The  night-fires  blaze  beneath  the  giant  pine, 
And  there  a  place  is  filled  that  once  was  thine. 

For  thou  art  mingling  with  the  city's  throng, 
And  thou  hast  thrown  thine  Indian  bow  aside  ; 

Child  of  the  forests !  thou  art  borne  along, 
E'en  as  ourselves,  by  life's  tempestuous  tide. 

But  will  this  be  ?  and  canst  thou  here  find  rest  ? 

Thou  hadst  thy  nurture  on  the  desert's  breast. 

Comes  not  the  sound  of  torrents  to  thine  ear 
From  the  savanna-land,  the  land  of  streams  ? 

Hearest  thou  not  murmurs  which  none  else  may  hear? 
Is  not  the  forest's  shadow  on  thy  dreams  ? 

They  call — wild  voices  call  thee  o'er  the  main, 

Back  to  thy  free  and  boundless  woods  again. 

Hear  them  not !  hear  them  not  ! — thou  canst  not  find 

In  the  far  wilderness  what  once  was  thine  ! 
Thou  hast  quaffed  knowledge  from  the  founts  of  mind, 

And  gathered  loftier  aims  and  hopes  divine. 
Thou  knowest  the  soaring  thought,  the  immortal  strain- 
Seek  not  the  deserts  and  the  woods  again ! 


STANZAS  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  — 

IN  the  full  tide  of  melody  and  mirth, 

While  joy's  bright  spirit  beams  from  every  eye, 

Forget  not  him,  whose  soul,  though  fled  from  earth, 
Seems  yet  to  speak  in  strains  that  cannot  die. 

Forget  him  not,  for  many  a  festal  hour, 

Charmed  by  those  strains  for  us  has  lightly  flown  : 
And  memory's  visions,  mingling  with  their  power, 

Wake  the  heart's  thrill  at  each  familiar  tone. 

Blest  be  the  harmonist,  whose  well-known  lays 
Revive  life's  morning  dreams,  when  youth  is  fled. 

And,  fraught  with  images  of  other  days, 
Recall  the  loved,  the  absent,  and  the  dead. 

His  the  dear  art  whose  spells  awhile  renew 

Hope's  first  illusions  in  their  tenderest  bloom — 

Oh  !  what  were  life,  unless  such  moments  threw 
Bright  gleams,  "  like  angel  visits,"  o'er  its  gloom  ? 


THE  VAUDOIS  VALLEYS. 


383 


THE  VAUDOIS  VALLEYS. 


YES  !    thou   hast  met   the    sun's    last 
smile 

From  the  haunted  hills  of  Rome  ; 
By  many  a  bright  ^Egean  isle 

Thou  hast  seen  the  billows  foam. 

From  the  silence  of  the  Pyramid, 
Thou  hast  watched  the  solemn  flow 

Of  the  Nile,  that  with  its  waters  hid 
The  ancient  realm  below. 

Thy  heart  hath  burned,  as  shepherds 

sung 

Some  wild  and  warlike  strain, 
Where  the  Moorish  horn  once  proudly 

rung 
Through  the  pealing  hills  of  Spain. 

And  o'er  the  lonely  Grecian  streams 
Thou  hast  hea^i  the  laurels  moan, 

With  a  sound  ^f.  murmuring   in   thy 

dream? 
Of  the  glory  that  is  gone. 

Hut  go  thou  to  the  pastoral  vales 
Of  the  Alpine  mountains  old, 

If  thou  wouldst  hear  immortal  tales 
By  the  wind's  deep  whispers  told ! 

Go,  if  thou  lovest  the  soil  to  tread 
Where  man  hath  nobly  striven, 

And  life,  like  incense,  hath  been  shed, 
An  offering  unto  heaven. 


For    o'er    the   snows,   and  round 
pines, 

Hath  swept  a  noble  flood; 
The  nurture  of  the  peasant's  vines 

Hath  been  the  martyr's  blood! 

A  spirit,  stronger  than  the  sword, 
And  loftier  than  despair, 


the 


Through  all  the  heroic  region  poured, 
Breathes  in  the  generous  air. 

A  memory  clings  to  every  steep 

Of  long-enduring  faith, 
And  the  sounding  streams  glad  record 
keep 

Of  courage  unto  death. 

Ask  of  the  peasant  -uhere  his  sires 
For  truth  and  freedom  bled  ? 

Ask,  where  were  lit  the  torturing  fires, 
Where  lay  the  holy  dead  I 

And  he  will  tell  thce,  all  around, 
On  fount,  and  turf,  and  stone, 

Far  as  the  chamois'  foot  can  bound, 
Their  ashes  have  been  sown ! 

Go,  when  the  Sabbnth-bell  is  heard  * 
Up  through  the  wilds  to  float, 

When  the  dark  old  woods  and  caves 

are  stirred 
To  gladness  by  the  note  ; 

When  forth,  along  their  thousand  rills, 
The  mountain  people  come, 

Join  thou  their  worship  on  those  hills 
Of  glorious  martyrdom. 

And  while  the  song  of  praise  ascends, 
And  while  the  torrent's  voice, 

Like  the  swell  of  many  an  organ,  blends, 
Then  let  thy  soul  rejoice. 

Rejoice,   that   human   hearts,   through 

scorn, 
Through  shame,  through  death,  made 

strong, 
Before    the   rocks   and   heavens   have 

borne 
Witness  of  God  so  long  ! 


1  See  GILI.Y'S  Researches  among  the  Mountains  of  Piedmont,  fur  an  interesting  account 
<-f  a  Sabbath-day  among  the  upper  regions  of  the  Vaudois.  Tlie  inhabitant*  of  these  Protestant 
valleys,  who,  like  the  Swiss,  repair  with  their  flocks  and  herds  to  the  summit  of  the  hills  during 
trie  summer,  are  followed  thither  by  their  pastors,  and  at  Uiat  season  of  the  year  assemble  on 
'hat  sacred  day  to  worship  iu  the  opcu  air* 


84  MISCELLANEOUS. 


SONG  OF  THE  SPANISH  WANDERER. 

PILGRIM  !  oh  say,  hath  thy  cheek  been  fanned 
By  the  sweet  winds  of  my  sunny  land  ? 
Knowest  thou  the  sound  of  its  mountain  pines  ? 
And  hast  thou  rested  beneath  its  vines  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  music  still  wandering  by, 
A  thing  of  the  breezes,  in  Spain's  blue  sky, 
Floating  away  o'er  hill  and  heath 
With  the  myrtle's  whisper,  the  citron's  breath  ? 

Then  say,  are  there  fairer  vales  than  those 
Where  the  warbling  of  fountains  forever  flows  ? 
Are  there  brighter  flowers  than  mine  own,  which  wave 
O'er  Moorish  ruin  and  Christian  grave  ? 

O  sunshine  and  song  I  they  are  lying  far 
By  the  streams  that  look  to  the  western  star ; 
My  heart  is  fainting  to  hear  once  more 
The  water-voices  of  that  sweet  shore. 

Many  were  they  that  have  died  for  thee, 
And  brave,  my  Spain  !  though  thou  art  not  free ; 
But  I  call  them  blest — they  have  rent  their  chain—- 
They sleep  in  thy  valleys,  my  sunny  Spain  ! 


THE  CONTADINA. 

WRITTEN   FOR  A  PICTURE. 

NOT  for  the  myrtle,  and  not  for  the  vine, 

Though  its  grape,  like  a  gem,  be  the  sunbeam's  shrine ; 

And  not  for  the  rich  blue  heaven  that  showers 

Joy  on  thy  spirit,  like  light  on  the  flowers; 

And  not  for  the  scent  of  the  citron  trees — 

Fair  peasant  I  I  call  thee  not  blest  for  these. 

Not  for  the  beauty  spread  over  thy  brow, 
Though  round  thee  a  gleam,  as  of  spring,  it  throw ; 
And  not  for  the  lustre  that  laughs  from  thine  eye, 
Like  a  dark  stream's  flash  to  the  sunny  sky, 
Though  the  south  in  its  riches  naught  lovelier  sees- 
Fair  peasant !  I  call  thee  not  blest  for  these. 

But  for  those  breathing  and  loving  things — 
For  the  boy's  fond  arm  that  around  thee  clings, 
For  the  smiling  cheek  on  thy  lap  that  glows, 
In  the  peace  of  a  trusting  child's  repose — 
For  the  hearts  whose  home  is  thy  gentle  breast, 
Oh !  richly  I  call  thee,  and  deeply  blest ! 


HOMES  OF  ENGLAND. 


385 


TROUBADOUR   SONG. 

THE  warrior  crossed  the  ocean's  foam 
For  the  stormy  fields  of  war; 

The  maid  was  left  in  a  smiling  home 
And  a  sunny  land  afar 

H:t  voice   was    heard  where    javelin 
showers 

Poured  on  the  steel-clad  line ; 
Her  step  was  midst  the  summer  flowers, 

Her  seat  beneath  the  vine 

His  shield  was  cleft,  his  lance  was  riven, 
And  the  red  blood  stained  his  crest; 

While  she — the  gentlest  wind  of  heaven 
Might  scarcely  fan  her  breast  ! 

Yet  a  thousand  arrows  passed  him  by. 
And  again  he  crossed  the  seas  • 

But  she  had  died  as  roses  die 
That  perish  with  a  breeze 

As  roses  die,  when  the  blast  is  come 
For  all  things  bright  and  fair  • 

There  was  death  within   the   smiling 

home — 
How  had  death  found  her  there  ? 


HOMES  OF  ENGLAND. 

"  Where's  the  coward  that  would  not  dare 
To  fight  for  such  a  land  ?  " — Marmion. 

THE  stately  homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand, 
Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees, 

O'er  all  the  pleasant  land  ! 

The    deer    across    their    greensward 

bound, 
Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam ; 


And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the 

sound 
Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  homes  of  England  I 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 
What  gladsome  looks  of  household  lova 

Meet  in  the  ruddy  light! 
There   woman's  voice   flows   forth   m 
song, 

Or  childhood's  tale  5s  told, 
Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 

Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  homes  of  England  I 

How  softly  on  thei'r  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath  hours  ! 
Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the    church-bell' 
chime 

Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn 
All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born 

The  cottage«homes  of  England  I 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 
They    are    smiling    o'er    the    silvery 
brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet  fanes. 
Threugh  glowing  orchards  forth  the) 
peep, 

Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves; 
And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  homes  of  England  ! 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall, 
May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  reared 

To  guard  each  hallowed  wall ! 
And  green  forever  be  the  groves, 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 
Where  first  the  child's  glad  spirit  lov^ 

Its  country  and  its  God! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE   SICILIAN   CAPTIVE. 

"  I  have  dreamt  thou  wert 
A  captive  in  thy  hopelessness  ;  afar 
From  the  sweet  home  of  thy  young  infancy, 
Whose  image  unto  thee  is  as  a  dream 
Of  fire  and  slaughter  ;  I  can  see  thee  wasting. 
Sick  of  thy  native  air." 

L.  E.  L. 

THE  champions  had  come  from  their  fields  of  war, 
Over  the  crests  of  the  billows  far ; 
They  had  brought  back  the  spoils  of  a  hundred  shore*, 
Where  the  deep  had  foamed  to  their  flashing  oars. 

They  sat  at  their  feast  round  the  Norse  king's  board ; 
By  the  glare  of  the  torch-light  the  mead  was  poured; 
The  hearth  was  heaped  with  the  pine-boughs  high, 
And  it  flung  a  red  radiance  on  shields  thrown  by 

The  Scalds  had  chanted  in  Runic  rhyme 

Their  songs  of  the  sword  and  the  olden  time ; 

And  a  solemn  thrill,  as  the  harp-chords  rung, 

Had  breathed  from  the  walls  where  the  bright  spears  hung, 

But  the  swell  was  gone  from  the  quivering  string, 
They  had  surrfrnoned  a  softer  voice  to  sing; 
And  a  captive  girl,  at  the  warriors'  call, 
Stood  forth  in  the  midst  of  that  frowning  hall. 

Lonely  she  stood, — in  her  mournful  eyes 
Lay  the  clear  midnigbt  of  southern  skies ; 
And  the  drooping  fringe  of  their  lashes  low, 
Half-veiled  a  depth  of  unfathomed  woe. 

Stately  she  stood — though  her  fragile  frame 
Seemed  struck  with  the  blight  of  some  inward  flame, 
And  her  proud  pale  brow  had  a  shade  of  scorn, 
Under  the  waves  of  her  dark  hair  worn. 

And  a  deep  flush  passed,  like  a  crimson  haze, 
O'er  her  marble  cheek  by  the  pine  fire's  blaze — 
No  soft  hue  caught  from  the  south  wind's  breath, 
But  a  token  of  fever  at  strife  with  death. 

She  had  been  torn  from  her  home  away, 
With  her  long  locks  crowned  for  her  bridal-day. 
And  brought  to  die  of  the  burning  dreams 
That  haunt  the  exile  by  foreign  streams. 

They  bade  her  sing  of  her  distant  land — 
She  held  its  lyre  with  a  trembling  hand, 
Till  the  spirit  its  blue  skies  had  given  her  woke, 
And  the  stream  of  her  voice  into  music  broke. 


THE  SICILIAN  CAPTIVE.  387 

Faint  was  the  strain,  in  its  first  wild  flow — 

Troubled  its  murmur,  and  sad  and  low ; 

But  it  swelled  into  deeper  power  ere  long, 

As  the  breeze  that  swept  o'er  her  soul  grew  strong. 

"THEY  bid  me  sing  of  thee,  mine  own,  my  sunny  landl  of  thee! 

Am  I  not  parted  from  thy  shores  by  the  mournful-sounding  seal 

Doth  not  thy  shadow  wrap  my  soul !  in  silence  let  me  die, 

In  a  voiceless  dream  of  thy  silvery  founts,  and  thy  pure,  deep  sapphire  sky, 

How  should  thy  lyre  give  here  its  wealth  of  buried  sweetness  forth — 

Its  tov.es  of  summer's  breathings  born,  to  the  wild  winds  of  the  north  ? 

"  Yet  thus  it  shall  be  once,  once  more!     My  spirit  shall  awake, 
And  through  the  mists  of  death  shine  out,  my  country,  for  thy  sake  I 
That  I  may  make  thee  known,  with  all  the  beauty  and  the  light, 
And  the  glory  never  more  to  bless  thy  daughter's  yearning  sight! 
Thy  woods  shall  whisper  in  my  song,  thy  bright  streams  warble  by, 
Thy  soul  flow  o'er  my  lips  again — yet  once,  my  Sicily ! 

"  There  are  blue  heavens — far  hence,  far  hence  !  but,  oh!  their  glorious  blue! 

Its  very  night  is  beautiful  with  the  hyacinth's  deep  hue! 

It  is  above  my  own  fair  land,  and  round  my  laughing  home, 

And  arching  o'er  my  vintage  hills,  they  hang  their  cloudless  domel 

And  making  all  the  waves  as  gems,  that  melt  along  the  shore, 

And  steeping  happy  hearts  in  joy — that  now  is  mine  no  more. 

"  And  there  are  haunts  in  that  green  land — oh  I  who  may  dream  or  tell 

Of  all  the  shaded  loveliness  it  hides  in  grot  and  dell ! 

By  fountains  flinging  rainbow-spray  on  dark  and  glossy  leaves, 

And  bowers  wherein  the  forest-dove  her  nest  untroubled  weaves  ; 

The  myrtle  dwells  there,  sending  round  the  richness  of  its  breath, 

And  the  violets  gleam  like  amethysts  from  the  dewy  moss  beneath. 

"And  there  are  floating  sounds  that  fill  the  skies  through  night  and  day- 
Sweet  sounds!  the  soul  to  hear  them  faints  in  dreams  of  heaven  away; 
They  wander  through  the  olive  woods,  and  o'er  the  shining  seas — 
They  mingle  with  the  orange  scents  that  load  the  sleepy  breeze; 
Lute,  voice,  and  bird  are  blending  there, — it  were  a  bliss  to  die, 
As  dies  a  leaf,  thy  groves  among,  my  flowery  Sicily ! 

"/may  not  thus  depart — farewell !     Yet  no,  my  country!  no! 
Is  not  love  stronger  than  the  grave  ?     I  feel  it  must  be  so ! 
My  fleeting  spirit  shall  o'ersweep  the  mountains  and  the  main, 
And  in  thy  tender  starlight  rove,  and  through  thy  woods  again. 
Its  passions  deepens — it  prevails  ! — I  break  my  chain — I  come 
To  dwell  a  viewless  thing,  yet  blest — in  thy  sweet  air,  my  home  I" 

And  her  pale  arms  dropped  the  ringing  lyre — 
There  came  a  mist  o'er  her  eye's  wild  fire — 
And  her  dark  rich  tresses  in  many  a  fold, 
Loosed  from  their  braids,  down  her  bosom  rolled. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

For  her  head  sank  back  on  the  rugged  wall 

A  silence  fell  o'er  the  warrior's  hall ; 

She  had  poured  out  her  soul  with  her  song's  last  tone : 

The  lyre  was  broken,  the  minstrel  gone ! 


IVAN  THE  CZAR. 


.*  Iran  le  Terrible,  e'tant  deji  devenu  vieux,  assiegait  Novgorod.  Les  Boyards,  le  voyant 
affoibh,  )ui  demanderent  s  il  ne  voulait  pas  donner  le  commandement  de  1'assaut  a  son  fils. 
Sa  fureur  fut  si  grande  a  cette  proposition,  que  rien  ne  put  1'appaiser  :  son  fils  se  prosterna  .\ 
ses  pieds  ;  il  le  repoussa  avec  un  coup  d'une  telle  violence,  que  deux  jours  apres  le  malheu- 
reux  en  mourut.  Le  pere,  alors  au  de"sespoir,  devint  indifferent  a  la  guerre  comme  au  pou- 
voir,  et  ne  surve'cut  que  peu  de  mois  a  son  fils." — Dix  Antics  d'Exil,  par  MADAMB  Dl 
STABL.] 

11  Gieb  diesen  Todten  mir  heraus.     Ich  muss 

Jhn  wieder  haben  ! 

Trostlose  allmacht, 

Die  nicht  emrnal  in  Graber  ihren  arm 

Verlangern,  eine  kleine  Ubereilung 

Ma  Menschenleben  nicht  verbessern  kann !  " 

SCHILLB*. 

"There  is  no  crimson  on  thy  cheek, 

And  on  thy  lip  no  breath  ; 
I  call  thee,  and  thou  dost  not  speak — 

They  tell  me  this  is  death! 
And  tearful  things  are  whispering 

That  I  the  deed  have  done — 
For  the  honor  of  thy  father's  name 

Look  up,  look  up',  my  son ! 

"  Well  might  I  know  death's  hue  ana 
mien — 

But  on  thine  aspect,  boy  ! 
What,  till  this  moment,  have  I  seen 

Save  pride  and  tameless  joy  ? 
Swiftest  thou  wert  to  battle, 

And  bravest  there  of  all — 
How  could  I  think  a  warrior's  frame 

Thus  like  a  flower  should  fall  ? 

"I  will  not  bear  that  still  cold  look- 
Rise  up,  thou  fierce  and  free  ! 

Wake   as    the    storm   wakes !     I    wil 

brook 
All,  save  this  calm,  from  thee  ! 

Lift  brightly  up,  and  proudly, 
Once  more  thy  kindling  eyes ! 

Hath  my  word  lost  its  power  on  earth! 
I  say  to  thee,  arise  1 


HE  sat  in  silence  on  the  ground, 

The  old  and  haughty  Czar, 
Lonely,  though  princes  girt  him  round, 

And  leaders  of  the  war; 
He  had  cast  his  jewelled  sabre, 

That  many  a  field  had  won, 
To  the  earth  beside  his  youthful  dead — 

His  fair  and  first-born  son. 

With  a  robe  of  ermine  for  its  bed, 

Was  laid  that  form  of  clay, 
Where  the  light  a  stormy  sunset  shed 

Through  the  rich  tent  made  way; 
And  a  sad  and  solemn  beauty 

On  the  pallid  face  came  down, 
Which    the    lord  of    nations    mutely 
watched, 

Tn  the  dust,  with  his  renown. 

I  ow  tones  at  last,  of  woe  and  fear, 

From  his  full  bosom  broke — 
A  mournful  thing  it  was  to  hear 

How  then  the  proud  man  spoke  ! 
The  voice  that  through  the  combat 

Had  shouted  far  and  high, 
Came   forth   in   strange,   dull,   hollow 
tones, 

Burdened  with  agony. 


CAROLAN'S  PROPHECY. 


339 


"  Didst  thou    not  know   I  loved  thee 
well! 

Thou  didst  not !  and  art  gone, 
In  bitterness  of  soul,  to  dwell 

Where  man  must  dwell  alone. 
Come  back,  young  fiery  spirit  ! 

If  but  one  hour,  to  learn 
The  secrets  of  the  folded  heart 

That  seemed  to  thee  so  stern. 

"Thou  wert   the   first,   the   first,   fair 
child 

That  in  mine  arms  I  pressed : 
Thou  wert   the  bright   one,  that   hast 
smiled 

Like  summer  on  my  breast  ! 
I  reared  thee  as  an  eagle, 

To  the  chase  thy  steps  I  led, 
I  bore  thee  on  my  battle-horse, 

I  look  upon  thee — dead  J 


"  Lay  down  my  warlike  banners  here, 

Never  again  to  wave, 
And  bury  my  red  sword  and  spear, 

Chiefs  I  in  my  first-born's  grave  ! 
And  leave  me  !— I  have  conquered, 

I  have  slain — my  work  is  done  ! 
Whom  have  I  slain  ? — ye  answer  not- 

Thou  too  art  mute,  my  son  ! " 

And  thus  his  wild  lament  was  poured 

Through  the  dark  resounding  night, 
And  the  battle  knew  no  more  his  sword, 

Nor  the  foaming  steed  his  might. 
He  heard  strange  voices  moaning 

In  every  wind  that  sighed  ; 
From  the  searching  stars  of  heaven  he 
shrank — 

Humbly  the  conqueror  died. 


CAROLAN'S  PROPHECY.' 

*  Thy  cheek  too  swiftly  flushes,  o'er  thine  eye 
The  lights  and  shadows  come  and  go  too  fast ; 
Thy  tears  gush  forth  too  soon,  and  in  thy  voice 
Are  sounds  of  tenderness  too  passionate 
For  peace  on  earth :  oh !  therefore,  child  of  songf 
'Tis  well  thou  shouldst  depart." 

A  SOUND  of  music,  from  amidst  the  hills, 

Came  suddenly,  and  died ;  a  fitful  sound 

Of  mirth,  soon  lost  in  wail.     Again  it  rose, 

And  sank  in  mournfulness.     There  sat  a  bard 

By  a  blue  stream  of  Erin,  where  it  swept 

Flashing  through  rock  and  wood  :  the  sunset's  light 

Was  on  his  wavy,  silver-gleaming  hair, 

And  the  wind's  whisper  in  the  mountain  ash, 

Whose  clusters  drooped  above.     His  head  was  bowed, 

His  hand  was  on  his  harp,  yet  thence  its  touch 

1  Founded  on  the  following  circumstance  related  in  the  Percy  Anecdotes  of  imagination. 

"  It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  Carolan,  the  Irish  bard,  even  in  his  gayest  mood,  ncvei 
could  compose  a  planxty  for  a  Miss  Brett,  in  the  county  of  Sligo,  whose  father's  house  he  fre- 
quented, and  where  he  always  met  with  a  reception  due  to  his  exquisite  taste  and  mental  endow- 
ments. One  day,  after  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  compose  something  in  a  sprightly  strain  for 
this  lady,  he  threw  aside  his  harp  with  a  mixture  of  rage  and  grief  ;  and  addressing  himself  in 
Irish  to  her  mother,  '  Madam,'  said  he,  '  I  have  often,  from  my  great  respect  to  your  family, 
attempted  a  planxty  in  order  to  celebrate  your  daughter's  perfections,  but  to  no  purpose.  Some 
evil  genius  hovers  over  me  ;  there  is  not  a  string  in  my  harp  that  does  not  vibrate  a  melancholy 
sound  when  I  set  about  this  task.  I  fear  she  is  not  doomed  to  remain  long  among  us  ;  nay, 
said  he  emphatically,  'she  will  not  survive  twelve  months."  The  event  verified  the  prediction, 
and  the  young  lady  died  within  the  period  limited  by  the  unconsciously  prophetic  bard." 


390  MISCELLANEOUS. 


Had  drawn  but  broken  strains  ;  and  many  stood 

Waiting  around,  in  silent  earnestness, 

The  unchaining  of  his  souK  the  gush  of  song — 

Many  and  graceful  forms  ! — yet  one  alone 

Seemed  present  to  his  dream  ;  and  she,  indeed, 

With  her  pale  virgin  brow,  and  changeful  cheek, 

And  the  clear  starlight  of  her  serious  eyes, 

Lovely  amidst  the  flowing  of  dark  locks 

And  pallid  braiding  flowers,  was  beautiful, 

E'en  painfully! — a  creature  to  behold 

With  trembling  'midst  our  joy,  lest  aught  unseen 

Should  waft  the  vision  from  us,  leaving  earth 

Too  dim  without  its  brightness  !     Did  such  fear 

O'ershadow  in  that  hour  the  gifted  one, 

By  his  own  rushing  stream  ?     Once  more  he  gazed 

Upon  the  radiant  girl,  and  yet  once  more 

From  the  deep  chords  his  wandering  hand  brought  out 

A  few  short  festive  notes,  an  opening  strain 

Of  bridal  melody,  soon  dashed  with  grief — 

As  if  some  wailing  spirit  in  the  strings 

Met  and  o'ermastered  him ;  but  yielding  then 

To  the  strong  prophet  impulse,  mournfully, 

Like  moaning  waters  o'er  the  harp  he  poured 

The  trouble  of  his  haunted  soul  and  sang — 

"  Voice  of  the  grave  ! 

I  hear  thy  thrilling  call ; 
It  comes  in  the  dash  of  the  foaming  wave, 

In  the  sere  leaf's  trembling  fall ! 
In  the  shiver  of  the  tree, 

I  hear  thee,  O  thou  voice ! 
And  I  would  thy  warning  were  but  for  me, 

That  my  spirit  might  rejoice. 

"  But  thou  art  sent 

For  the  sad  earth's  young  and  fair, 
For  the  graceful  heads  that  have  not  bent 

To  the  wintry  hand  of  care  ! 
They  hear  the  wind's  low  sigh, 

And  the  river  sweeping  free, 
And  the  green  reeds  murmuring  heavily, 

And  the  woods — but  they  hear  not  thee  ! 

"  Long  have  I  striven 

With  my  deep-foreboding  soul, 
But  the  full  tide  now  its  bounds  hath  riven, 

And  darkly  on  must  roll. 
There's  a  young  brow  smiling  near, 

With  a  bridal  white  rose  wreath — 
Unto  me  it  smiles  from  a  flowery  bier, 

Touched  solemnly  by  death  I 


CAROLAWS  PROPHECY.  391 


"  Fair  art  thou,  Morna! 

The  sadness  of  thine  eye 
Is  beautiful  as  silvery  clouds 

On  the  dark-blue  summer  sky  ! 
And  thy  voice  comes  like  the  sound 

Of  a  sweet  and  hidden  rill, 
That  makes  the  dim  woods  tuneful  round — 

But  soon  it  must  be  still ! 

"  Silence  and  dust 

On  thy  sunny  lips  must  lie — 
Make  not  the  strength  of  love  thy  trust, 

A  stronger  yet  is  nigh  ! 
No  strain  of  festal  flow 

That  my  hand  for  thee  hath  tried, 
But  into  dirge-notes  wild  and  low 

Its  ringing  tones  have  died. 

*  Young  art  thou,  Morna! 

Yet  on  thy  gentle  head, 
Like  heavy  dew  on  the  lily's  leaves, 

A  spirit  hath  been  shed ! 
And  the  glance  is  thine  which  sees 

Through  nature's  awful  heart — 
But  bright  things  go  with  the  summer  breezt, 

And  thou  too  must  depart ! 

«  Yet,  shall  I  weep  ? 

I  know  that  in  thy  breast 
There  swells  a  fount  of  song  too  deep 

Too  powerful  for  thy  rest  I 
And  the  bitterness  I  know, 

And  the  chill  of  this  world's  breath- 
Go— all  undimmed  in  thy  glory,  go ! 

Young  and  crowned  bride  of  death  ! 

"  Take  hence  to  heaven 

Thy  holy  thoughts  and  bright ! 
And  soaring  hopes,  that  weie  not  given 

For  the  touch  of  mortal  blight ! 
Might  we  follow  in  thy  track, 

This  parting  should  not  be  ! 
But  the  spring  shall  give  us  violets  back, 

And  every  flower  but  thee  !  " 

There  was  a  burst  of  tears  around  the  bnrd  : 
All  wept  but  one— and  she  serenely  stood, 
With  her  clear  brow  and  dark  religious  eve, 
Raised  to  the  first  faint  star  above  the  hills. 
And  cloudless  ;  though  it  might  be  that  her  cheek 
Was  paler  than  before.     So  Morna  heard 
The  minstrel's  prophecy. 


392  MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  spring  returned, 

Bringing  the  earth  her  lovely  things  again — 
All,  save  the  loveliest  far  !     A  voice,  a  smile, 
A  young  sweet  spirit  gone. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  CASTLE. 

FROM  THE   "PORTRAIT  GALLERY,"  AN   UNFINISHED  POEM. 

"  If  there  be  but  one  spot  on  thy  name. 
One  eye  thou  fearest  to  meet,  one  human  voice 
Whose  tones  thou  shnnkest  from — Woman !  veil  thy  face. 
And  bow  thy  head — and  die  !  " 

THOU  seest  her  pictured  with  her  shining  hair, 

(Famed  were  those  tresses  in  Proven£al  song,) 
Half  braided,  half  o'er  cheek  and  bosom  fair 

Let  loose,  and  pouring  sunny  waves  along 
Her  gorgeous  vest.     A  child's  light  hand  is  roving 
Midst  the  rich  curls  ;  and,  oh  I  how  meekly  loving 
Its  earnest  looks  are  lifted  to  the  face 
Which  bends  to  meet  its  lip  in  laughing  grace! 
Yet  that  bright  lady's  eye,  methinks,  hath  less 
Of  deep,  and  still,  and  pensive  tenderness, 
Than  might  beseem  a  mother's  ;  on  her  brow 

Something  too  much  there  sits  of  native  scorn, 
And  her  smile  kindles  with  a  conscious  glow, 

As  from  the  thought  of  sovereign  beauty  born. 
These  may  be  dreams — but  how  shall  woman  tell 
Of  woman's  shame,  and  not  with  tears  ?     She  fell  I 
That  mother  left  that  child  ! — went  hurrying  by 
Its  cradle — haply  not  without  a  sigh, 
Haply  one  moment  o'er  its  rest  serene 
She  hung.     But  no  !  it  could  not  thus  have  been, 
For  she  went  on  ! — forsook  her  home,  her  hearth, 
All  pure  affection,  all  sweet  household  mirth, 
To  live  a  gaudy  and  dishonored  thing, 
Sharing  in  guilt  the  splendors  of  a  king. 

Her  lord,  in  very  weariness  of  life, 

Girt  on  his  sword  for  scenes  of  distant  strife. 

He  recked  no  more  of  glory  :  grief  and  shame 

Crushed  out  his  fiery  nature,  and  his  name 

Died  silently.     A  shadow  o'er  his  halls 

Crept  year  by  year  :  the  minstrel  passed  their  walls ; 

The  warder's  horn  hung  mute.     Meantime  the  child 

On  whose  first  flowering  thoughts  no  parent  smiled, 

A  gentle  girl,  and  yet  deep-hearted,  grew 

Into  sad  youth;  fo'r  well,  too  well,  she  knew 


THE  LADY  OP  THE  CASTLE.  393 


Her  mother's  tale !     Its  memory  made  the  sky 

Seem  all  too  joyous  for  her  shrinking  eye  ; 

Checked  on  her  lip  the  flow  of  song,  which  fain 

Would  there  have  lingered  ;  flushed  her  cheek  to  pain. 

If  met  by  sudden  glance  ;  and  gave  a  tone 

Of  sorrow,  as  for  something  lovely  gone, 

E'en  to  the  spring's  glad  voice.     Her  own  was  low 

And  plaintive.     Oh  !  there  lie  such  depths  of  woe 

In  a.  young  blighted  spirit !    Manhood  rears 

A  haughty  brow,  and  age  has  done  with  tears  ; 

But  youth  bows  down  to  misery,  in  amaze 

At  the  dark  cloud  o'ermantling  its  fresh  days  ; — 

And  thus  it  was  with  her,     A  mournful  sight 

In  one  so  fair — for  she  indeed  was  fair  ; 
Not  with  her  mother's  dazzling  eyes  of  light — 

Hers  were  more  shadowy,  full  of  thought  and  prayer, 
And  with  long  lashes  o'er  a  white-rose  cheek 
Drooping  in  gloom,  yet  tender  still  and  meek, 
Still  that  fond  child's — and  oh !  the  brow  above 
So  pale  and  pure  !  so  formed  for  holy  love 
To  gaze  upon  in  silence  ! — But  she  felt 
That  love  was  not  for  her,  though  hearts  would  melt 
Where'er  she  moved,  and  reverence  mutely  given 
Went  with  her  ;  and  low  prayers,  that  called  on  heaven 
To  bless  the  young  Isaure. 

One  sunny  morn 

With  alms  before  her  castle  gate  she  stood, 
Midst  peasant  groups  :  when,  breathless  and  o'erworn, 

And  shrouded  in  long  weeds  of  widowhood, 
A  stranger  through  them  broke.    The  orphan  maid, 
With  her  sweet  voice  and  proffered  hand  of  aid, 
Turned  to  give  welcome  ;  but  a  wild  sad  look 
Met  hers — a  gaze  that  all  her  spirit  shook ; 
And  that  pale  woman,  suddenly  subdued 
By  some  strong  passion,  in  its  pushing  mood, 
Knelt  at  her  feet,  and  bathed  them  with  such  tears 
As  rain  the  hoarded  agonies  of  years 
From  the  heart's  urn  ;  and  with  her  white  lips  pressed 
The  ground  they  trod  ;  then,  bun-ing  in  her  vest 
Her  brow's  deep  flush,  sobbed  out — "  Oh  undenled  J 
I  am  thy  mother — spurn  me  not,  my  child  !  " 

Isaure  had  prayed  for  that  lost  mother ;  wept 
O'er  her  stained  memory,  while  the  happy  slept 
In  the  hushed  midnight ;  stood  with  mournful  gaze 
Before  yon  picture's  smile  of  other  days, 
But  never  breathed  in  human  ear  the  name 
Which  weighed  her  being  to  the  earth  with  shame. 
What  marvel  if  the  anguish,  the  surprise, 
The  dark  remembrances,  the  altered  guise, 


394  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Awhile  o'erpowered  her  ?     From  the  weeper's  touch 
She  shrank — 'twas  but  a  moment — yet  too  much 
For  that  all-humbled  one ;  its  mortal  stroke 
Came  down  like  lightning,  and  her  full  heart  broke 
At  once  in  silence.     Heavily  and  prone 
She  sank,  while  o'er  her  castle's  threshold  stone, 
Those  long  fair  tresses — they  still  brightly  wore 
Their  «arly  pride,  though  bound  with  pearls  no  more- 
Bursting  their  fillet,  in  sad  beauty  rolled, 
And  swept  the  dust  with  coils  of  wavy  gold. 

Her  child  bent  o'er  her — called  her :  'twas  too  late 
Dead  lay  the  wanderer  at  her  own  proud  gate ! 
The  joy  of  courts,  the  star  of  knight  and  bard — 
How  didst  thou  fall,  O  bright-haired  Ermengarde! 


THE  MOURNER  FOR  THE  BARMECIDES. 

"  O  good  old  man  !  how  well  in  thee  appears 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world ! 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times." 

At  you  Likt  It, 

FALLEN  was  the  house  of  Giafar ;  and  its  name, 

The  high  romantic  name  of  Barmecide, 

A  sound  forbidden  on  its  own  bright  shores, 

By  the  swift  Tigris'  wave.     Stern  Haroun's  wrath, 

Sweeping  the  mighty  with  their  fame  away, 

Had  so  passed  sentence  :  but  man's  chainless  heart 

Hides  that  within  its  depths  which  never  yet 

The  oppressor's  thought  could  reach. 

'Twas  desolate 

Where  Giafar's  halls,  beneath  the  burning  sun, 
Spread  out  in  ruin  lay.     The  songs  had  ceased ; 
The  lights,  the  perfumes,  and  the  genii  tales 
Had  ceased  ;  the  guests  were  gone.     Yet  still  one  voice 
Was  there — the  fountain's  ;  through  those  eastern  courts, 
O'er  the  broken  marble  and  the  grass, 
Its  low  clear  music  shedding  mournfully. 

And  still  another  voice !   An  aged  man, 

Yet  with  a  dark  and  fervent  eye  beneath 

His  silvery  hair,  came  day  by  day,  and  sate 

On  a  white  column's  fragment :   and  drew  forth, 

From  the  forsaken  walls  and  dim  arcades, 

A  tone  that  shook  them  with  its  answering  thrill, 

To  his  deep  accents.    Many  a  glorious  talc 


THE  MOURNER  FOR  THE  BARMECIDES.  395 


He  told  that  sad  yet  stately  solitude, 

Pouring  his  memory's  fulness  o'er  its  gloom, 

Like  waters  in  the  waste  :  and  calling  up, 

By  song  or  high  recital  of  their  deeds, 

Bright  solemn  shadows  of  its  vanished  race 

To  people  their  own  halls  :  with  these  alone, 

In  all  this  rich  and  breathing  world,  his  thoughts 

Held  still  unbroken  converse.     He  had  been 

Reared  in  this  lordly  dwelling,  and  was  now 

The  ivy  of  its  ruins,  unto  which 

His  fading  life  seemed  bound.     Day  rolled  on  day, 

And  from  that  scene  the  loneliness  was  fled; 

For  crowds  around  the  gray-haired  chronicler 

Met  as  men  meet,  within  whose  anxious  hearts 

Fear  with  deep  feeling  strives  ;  till,  as  a  breeze 

Wanders  through  forest  branches,  and  is  met 

By  one  quick  sound  and  shiver  of  the  leaves, 

The  spirit  of  his  passionate  lament, 

As  through  their  stricken  souls  it  passed,  awoke 

One  echoing  murmur.     But  this  might  not  be 

Under  a  despot's  rule,  and,  summoned  thence, 

The  dreamer  stood  before  the  Caliph's  throne  : 

Sentenced  to  death  he  stood,  and  deeply  pale, 

And  with  his  white  lips  rigidly  compressed; 

Till,  in  submissive  tones,  he  asked  to  speak 

Once  more,  ere  thrust  from  earth's  fair  sunshine  forth. 

Was  it  to  sue  for  grace  ?     His  burning  heart 

Sprang,  with  a  sudden  lightning,  to  his  eye, 

And  he  was  changed  ! — and  thus  in  rapid  words, 

The  o'ermastering  thoughts,  more  strong  than  death,  found  way: 

*  And  shall  I  not  rejoice  to  go,  when  the  noble  and  the  brave, 
With  the  glory  on  their  brows,  are  gone  before  me  to  the  grave  ? 
What  is  there  left  to  look  on  now,  what  brightness  in  the  land? 
I  hold  in  scorn  the  faded  world,  that  wants  their  princely  band  ! 

"  My  chiefs  1  my  chiefs  !  the  old  man  comes  that  in  your  halls  was  nursetl- 
That  followed  you  to  many  a  fight,  where  flashed  your  sabres  first — 
That  bore  your  children  in  his  arms,  your  name  upon  his  heart :  — 
Oh !  must  the  music  of  that  name  with  him  from  earth  depart  ? 

"  It  shall  not  be  !     A  thousand  tongues,  though  human  voice  were  still, 
With  that  high  sound  the  living  air  triumphantly  shall  fill  ; 
The  wind's  free  flight  shall  bear  it  on  as  wandering  seeds  are  sown, 
And  the  starry  midnight  whisper  it,  with  a  deep  and  thrilling  tone. 

"  For  it  is  uot  as  a  flower  whose  scent  with  the  drooping  leaves  expires, 
And  it  is  not  as  a  household  lamp,  that  a  breath  should  quench  its  fires; 
It  is  written  on  our  battle-field  with  the  writing  of  the  sword, 
It  hath  left  upon  our  desert  sands  a  light  in  blessings  poured. 

"  The  founts,  the  many  gushing  founts  which  to  the  wild  ye  gave, 
Of  you,  my  chiefs  !  shall  sing  aloud,  as  they  pour  a  joyous  wave ; 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


And  the  groves,  with  whose  deep  lovely  gloom  ye  hung  the  pilgrim's  way, 
Shall  send  from  all  their  sighing  leaves  your  praises  on  the  day. 

"  The  very  walls  your  bounty  reared  for  the  stranger's  homeless  head, 
Shall  find  a  murmur  to  record  your  tale,  my  glorious  dead  ! 
Though  the  grass  be  where  ye  feasted  once,  where  lute  and  cittern  i  ung, 
And  the  serpent  in  your  palaces  lie  coiled  amidst  its  young. 

"  It  is  enough  !     Mine  eye  no  more  of  joy  or  splendor  sees — 
I  leave  your  name  in  lofty  faith  to  the  skies  and  to  the  breeze ! 
I  go,  since  earth  her  flower  hath  lost,  to  join  the  bright  and  fair, 
And  call  the  grave  a  kingly  house,  for  ye,  my  chiefs !  are  there." 

But  while  the  old  man  sang,  a  mist  of  tears 

O'er  Haroun's  eyes  had  gathered,  and  a  thought — 

Oh !  many  a  sudden  and  remorseful  thought — 

Of  his  youth's  once-loved  friends,  the  martyred  race, 

O'erflowed  his  softening  heart     "  Live  !  live  !  "  he  cried, 

"  Thou  faithful  unto  death  !     Live  on,  and  still 

Speak  of  thy  lords — they  were  a  princely  band  1 " 


THE  SPANISH  CHAPEL.1 

'  Weep  not  for  those  whom  the  vale  of  the  tomb, 

In  life's  early  morning,  hath  hid  from  our  eyes, 

Ere  sin  threw  a  veil  o'er  the  spirit's  young  bloom, 

Or  earth  had  profaned  whafwas  born  for  the  skies. 


I  MADE  a  mountain  brook  my  guide 
Through  a  wild  Spanish  glen, 

And  wandered  on  its  grassy  side, 
Far  from  the  homes  of  honest  men. 

It  lured  me  with  a  singing  tone, 
And  many  a  sunny  glance, 

To  a  green  spot  of  beauty  lone — 
A  haunt  for  old  romance. 

A  dim  and  deeply  bosomed  grove 

Of  many  an  aged  tree, 
Such  as  the  shadowy  violets  love, 

The  fawn  and  forest  bee. 

The  darkness  of  the  chestnut-bough 

There  on  the  waters  lay, 
The  bright  stream  reverently  below 

Checked  its  exulting  play; 


MOORS.    • 

And  bore  a  music  all  subdued, 

And  led  a  silvery  sheen 
On  through  the  breathing  solitude 

Of  that  rich  leafy  scene. 

For  something  viewlessly  around 
Of  solemn  influence  dwelt, 

In  the  soft  gloom  and  whispery  sound 
Not  to  be  told,  but  felt ; 

While  sending  forth  a  quiet  gleam 

Across  the  wood's  repose, 
And  o'er  the  twilight  of  the  strtim, 

A  lowly  chapel  rose. 

A  pathway  to  that  still  retreat 
Through  many  a  myrtle  wound, 

And  there  a  sight — how  strangely  swe* 
My  steps  in  wonder  bound. 


1  Suggested  by  a  scene  beautifull^jdeschbed  in  the.  Recollections  r/  ike  Peninsula. 


THE  KAISER'S  FEAST. 


397 


For  on  a  brilliant  bed  of  flowers, 
E'en  at  the  threshold  made, 

As  if  to  sleep  through  sultry  hours, 
A  young  fair  child  was  laid. 

To  sleep  ? — oh !    ne'er  on  childhood's 
eye 

And  silken  lashes  pressed, 
Did  the  warm  living  slumber  lie 

With  such  a  weight  of  rest! 

Yet  still  a  tender  crimson  glow 
Its  cheeks'  pure  marble  died — 

'Twas  but  the  light's  faint  streaming 

flow 
Through  roses  heaped  beside. 

I  stooped — the  smooth  round  arm  was 
chill, 

The  soft  lips'  breath  was  fled, 
And  the  bright  ringlets  hung  so  still — 

The  lovely  child  was  dead  1 


"  Alas  I  "  I  cried,  "  fair  faded  thing  ! 

Thou  hast  wrung  bitter  tears, 
And  thou  hast  left  a  woe,  to  cling 

Round  yearning  hearts  for  years  I  " 

But  then  a  voice  came  sweet  and  low 

I  turned,  and  near  me  sate 
A  woman  with  a  mourner's  brow, 

Pale,  yet  not  desolate. 

And  in  her  still,  clear,  matron  face, 

All  solemnly  serene, 
A  shadowed  image  I  could  trace 

Of  that  young  slumberer's  mien. 

"  Stranger !  thou  pitiest  me,"  she  said 
With  lips  that  faintly  smiled, 

"  As  here  I  watch  beside  my  dead, 
My  fair  and  precious  child. 

"  But  know,  the  time-worn  heart  maybe 
By  pangs  in  this  world  riven, 

Keener  than  theirs  who  yield,  like  me, 
An  angel  thus  to  heaven  ! " 


THE  KAISER'S  FEAST. 

[Loins,  Emperor  of  Germany,  having  put  his  brother,  the  Palsgrave  Rodolphus,  under  the  ba« 
of  the  Empire  in  the  twelfth  century,  that  unfortunate  prince  fled  to  England,  where  he 
died  'in  neglect  and  poverty.  "  After  his  decease,  his  mother  Matilda  privately  invited  h 
children  to  return  to  Germany  ;  and  by  her  mediation,  during  a  season  of  festivity,  when 
Louis  kept  wassail  in  the  castle  of  Heidelberg,  the  family  of  his  brother  presented  themselves 
before  him  in  the  srarb  of  suppliants,  imploring  pity  and  forgiveness.  To  this  appeal  the 
victor  softened."— Miss  BENGKR'S  Memoirs  of  the  Queen  of  Bohemia.\ 


THE  Kaiser  feasted  in  his  hall — 

The  red  wine  mantled  high; 
Banners  were  trembling  on  the  wall 

To  the  peals  of  minstrelsy  : 
And  many  a  gleam  and  sparkle  came 

From  the  armor  hung  around, 
As  it  caught  the  glance  of  the  torch's 
flame, 

Or    the    hearth    with    pine-boughs 
crowned 

Why  fell  there  silence  on  the  chord 
Beneath  the  harper's  hand  ? 

And  suddenly  from  that  rich  board, 
Why  rose  the  wassail  band  ? 


The  strings  were  hushed — the  knights 
made  way 

For  the  queenly  mother's  tread, 
As  up  the  hall,  in  dark  array, 

Two  fair-haired  boys  she  led. 

She   led  them  e'en  to   the    Kaiser's 
place, 

And  still  before  him  stood  ; 
Till,  with  strange  wonder,  o'er  his  face 

Flushed  the  proud  warrior-blood: 
And  "Speak,  my  mother!    speak  I" 
he  cried, 

"  Wherefore  this  mourning  vest  : 
And  the  clinging  children  by  thy  side, 

In  weeds  of  sadness  drcst ! " 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  Well  may  a  mourning  vest  be  mine, 

And  theirs,  my  son,  my  son ! 
Look  on  the  features  of  thy  line 

In  each  fair  little  one  ! 
Though  grief  awhfle  within  their  eyes 

Hath  tamed  the  dancing  glee, 
Yet  there  thine  own  quick  spirit  lies — 

Thy  brother's  children  see  ! 

'.'  And  where  is  he,  thy  brother — where  ? 

He  in  thy  home  that  grew, 
And  smiling  with  his  sunny  hair, 

Ever  to  greet  thee  flew  ? 
How  would  his  arms  thy  neck  entwine, 

His  fond  lips  press  thy  brow  1 
My    son !     oh,     call     these     orphans 
thine ! — 

Thou  hast  no  brother  now! 

"  What!  from  their  gentle  eyes. doth 
naught 

Speak  of  thy  childhood's  hours, 
And  smite  thee  with  a  tender  thought 

Of  thy  dead  father's  towers  ? 
Kind  was  thy  boyish  heart  and  true, 

When  reared  together  there, 
Through  the  old  woods  like  fawns  ye 
flew— 

Where  is  thy  brother — where  ? 


"  Well  didst  thou  love  him  then,  and 
he 

Still  at  thy  side  was  seen ! 
How  is  it  that  such  things  can  be 

As  though  they  ne'er  had  been  ? 
Evil   was    this   world's   breath,  which 
came 

Between  the  good  and  brave  ! 
Now  must  the  tears  of  grief  and  shame 

Be  offered  to  the  grave. 

"And   let   them,   let    them   there    be 
poured ! 

Though  all  unfelt  below — 
Thine  own   wrung  heart,  to  love  re- 
stored, 

Shall  soften  as  they  flow. 
Oh  !  death  is  mighty  to  make  peace  ; 

Now  bid  his  work  be  done  ! 
So  many  an  inward  strife  shall  cease — 

Take^  take  these  babes,  my  son  ! " 

His  eyes  was  dimmed — the  strong  man 
shook 

With  feelings  long  suppressed  ; 
Up  in  his  arms  the  boys  he  took, 

And  strained  them  to  his  breast. 
And  a  shout  from  all  the  royal  hall 

Burst  forth  to  hail  the  sight ; 
And   eyes  were  wet   midst   the  brave 
that  met 

At  the  Kaiser's  feast  that  night. 


TASSO  AND  HIS  SISTER. 

1  Devant  vous  est  Sorrente  ;  li  de'meuroit  la  sceur  de  Tasse,  quand  il  vint  en  pc'le'rin  dcmander 
a  cette  obscure  amie  un  asyle  contre  1'injustice  des  princes. — Ses  longues  douleurs  avaienf 
presque  egare1  sa  raison  ;  il  ne  lui  restoit  plus  que  son  genie." — Corinne. 


SHE  sat,  where    on    each   wind  that 
sighed 

The  citron's  breath  went  by, 
While  the  red  gold  of  eventide 

Burned  in  the  Italian  sky. 
Her  bower  was  one  where  daylight's 
close 

Full  oft  sweet  laughter  found, 
As  thence  the  voice  of  childhood  rose 

To  the  high  vineyards  round. 


But  still  and  thoughtful  at  her  knee 

Her  children  stood  that  hour, 
Their  bursts  of  song  and  dancing  glee 

Hushed  as  by  words  of  power. 
With  bright  fixed  wondering  eyes,  that 
gazed 

Up  to  their  mother's  face, 
With   brows   through    parted   ringlets 
raised, 

Thej  stood  in  silent  grace. 


THE  RELEASE  OF  TASSO. 


399 


While   she — yet   something    o'er  her 
look 

Of  mournfulness  was  spread — 
Forth  from  a  poet's  magic  book 

The  glorious  numbers  read , 
1  he  proud  undying  lay,  which  poured 

Its  light  on  evil  years ; 
His  of  the  gifted  pen  and  sword,' 

The  triumph,  and  the  tears 

Fhe  read  of  fair  Erminia's  flight, 

Which  Venice  once  might  hear 
Fung  on  her  glittering  seas  at  night 

By  many  a  gondolier. 
Of  him  she  read,  who  broke  the  charm 

That  wrapt  the  myrtle  grove ; 
Of  Godfrey's  deeds,  of  Tancred's  arm, 

That  slew  his  Paynim  love. 

Young  cheeks  around  that  bright  page 
glowed, 

Young  holy  hearts  were  stirred  ; 
And  the  meek  tears  of  woman  flowed 

Fast  o'er  each  burning  word. 
And  sounds  of  breeze,  and  fount,  and 
leaf, 

Came  sweet,  each  pause  between, 
When  a  strange  roice  of  sudden  grief 

Burst  on  the  gentle  scene. 

The  mother  turned — a  wayworn  man, 
In  pilgrim  garb,  stood  nigh, 

Of  stately  mien,  yet  \vild  and  wan, 
Of  proud  yet  mournful  eye. 


But  drops  which  would  not  stay  fot 
pride 

From  that  dark  eye  gushed  free, 
As  pressing  his  pale  brow,  he  cried. 

"  Forgotten  !  e'en  by  thee  ! 

"  Am  I  so  changed  ? — and  yet  we  t\vc 

Oft  hand  in  hand  have  played ; 
This  brow  hath  been  all  bathed  in  dev 

From  wreaths  which  thou  hast  made- 
We    have   knelt  down   and   said   ore 
prayer, 

And  sung  one  vesper  strain. 
My  soul  is  dim  with  clouds  of  care — 

Tell  me  those  words  again  ! 

"  Life  hath  been  heavy  on  my  head — • 

I  come  a  stricken  deer, 
Bearing  the  heart,  midst  crowds  that 
bled, 

To  bleed  in  stillness  here  " 
She  gazed,  till  thoughts  that  long  had 
slept 

Shook  all  her  thrilling  frame — 
She  fell  upon  his  neck  and  wept, 

Murmuring  her  brother's  name. 

Her  brother's  name  ! — and  who  was  he. 

The  weary  one,  the  unknown, 
That  came  the  bitter  world  to  flee, 

A  stranger  to  his  own  ? 
He  was  the  bard  of  gifts  divine 

To  sway  the  souls  of  men  ; 
He  of  the  song  for  Salem's  shrine, 

He  of  the  sword  and  pen  1 


THE  RELEASE  OF  TASSO. 

THERE  came  a  bard  to  Rome  ;  he  brought  a  lyre 
Of  sounds  to  peal  through  Rome's  triumphant  sky, 
To  mourn  a  hero  on  his  funeral  pyre, 
Or  greet  a  conqueror  with  its  war-notes  high; 
For  on  each  chord  had  fallen  the  gift  of  fire, 
The  living  breath  of  Power  and  Victory,  — 
Yet  he,  its  lord,  the  sovereign  city's  guest, 
Sighed  but  to  flee  away  and  be  at  rest.          \ 


••  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  recall  the  well-known  Italian  saying, 
and  pen,  was  superior  to  all  men. 


,  with  his  sword 


400  MISCELLANEOUS. 


He  brought  a  spirit  whose  ethereal  birth 
Was  of  the  loftiest,  and  whose  haunts  had  been 
Amidst  the  marvels  and  the  pomps  of  earth, 
Wild  fairy  bowers,  and  groves  of  deathless  green, 
And  fields  where  mail-clad  bosoms  prove  their  worth, 
When  flashing  swords  light  up  the  stormy  scene : 
He  brought  a  weary  heart,  a  wasted  frame, — 
The  Child  of  Visions  from  a  dungeon  came. 

On  the  blue  waters,  as  in  joy  they  sweep, 

With  starlight  floating  o'er  their  swells  and  falls — 

On  the  blue  waters  of  the  Adrian  deep 

His  numbers  had  been  sung ;  and  in  the  halls, 

Where,  through  rich  foliage  if  a  sunbeam  peep. 

It  seems  Heaven's  wakening  to  the  sculptured  walls, 

Had  princes  listened  to  those  lofty  strains. 

While  the  high  soul  they  burst  from  pined  in  chains. 

And  in  the  summer  gardens,  where  the  spray 
Of  founts,  far  glancing  from  their  marble  bed, 
Rams  on  the  flowering  myrtles  in  its  play, 
And  the  sweet  limes,  and  glassy  leaves  that  spread 
Round  the  deep  golden  citrons,  o'er  his  lay 
Dark  eyes,  dark  soft  Italian  eyes,  had  shed 
Warm  tears,  fast  glittering  in  that  sun  whose  light 
Was  a  forbidden  glory  to  his  sight 

Oh !  if  it  be  that  wizard  sign,  and  spell,     ' 
And  talisman,  had  power  of  old  to  bind, 
In  the  dark  chambers  of  some  cavern-cell, 
Or  knotted  oak,  the  spirits  of  the  wind, 
Things  of  the  lightning-pinion,  wont  to  dwell 
High  o'er  the  reach  of  eagles,  and  to  find 
Joy  in  the  rush  of  storms, — even  such  a  doom 
Was  that  high  minstrel's  in  his  dungeon-gloom. 

But  he  was  free  at  last ! — the  glorious  land 
Of  the  white  Alps  and  pine-crowned  Apennines, 
Along  whose  shore  the  sapphire  seas  expand. 
And  tne  wastes  teem  with  myrtle,  and  the  shrines 
Of  long-forgotten  Gods  from  Nature's  hand 
Receive  bright  offerings  still — with  all  its  vines, 
And  rocks,  and  ruins,  clear  before  him  lay ; — 
The  seal  was  taken  from  the  founts  of  day. 

The  winds  came  over  his  cheek — the  soft  winds,  blending 

All  summer  sounds  and  odors  in  their  sigh ; 

The  orange-groves  waved  round ;  the  hills  were  sending 

Their  bright  streams  down ;  the  free  birds  darting  by, 

And  the  blue  festal  heavens  above  him  bending, 

As  if  to  fold  a  world  where  none  could  die. 

And  who  was  he  that  looked  upon  these  things  ? 

— If  but  of  earth,  yet  one  whose  thoughts  were  wings. 


THE  RELEASE  OF  TASSO.  401 


To  bear  him  o'er  creation  ;  and  whose  mind 

Was  an  air  harp,  awakening  to  the  sway 

Of  sunny  Nature's  breathings  unconfined, 

With  all  the  mystic  harmonies  that  lay 

Far  in  the  slumber  of  its  choids  enshrined, 

Till  the  light  breeze  went  thrilling  on  its  way. 

— There  was  no  sound  that  wandered  through  the  sky 

But  told  him  secrets  in  its  melody. 

Was  the  deep  forest  lon'ely  unto  him, 

With  all  its  whispering  leaves  ?     Each  dell  and  glade 

Teemed  with  such  forms  as  on  the  moss-clad  brim 

Of  fountains,  in  their  sparry  grottoes,  played. 

Seen  by  the  Greek  of  yore  through  twilight  dim, 

Or  misty  noontide  in  the  laurel  shade. 

— There  is  no  solitude  on  earth  so  deep 

As  that  where  man  decrees  that  man  should  weep  ! 

But  oh!  the  life  in  Nature's  green  domains, 

The  breathing  sense  of  joy  1  where  flowers  are  springing 

15y  starry  thousands  on  the  slopes  and  plains, 

And  the  gray  rocks — and  all  the  arched  woods  ringing, 

And  the  young  branches  trembling  to  the  strains 

Of  wild-born  creatures,  through  the  sunshine  winging 

Their  fearless  flight, — and  sylvan  echoes  round, 

Mingling  all  tones  to  one  /Eolian  sound. 

And  the  glad  voice,  the  laughing  voice  of  streams, 

And  the  low  cadence  of  the  silvery  sea, 

And  reed-notes  from  the  mountains,  and  the  beams 

Of  the  warm  sun — all  these  are  for  the  free  ! 

And  they  were  his  once  more,  the  bard  whose  dreams 

Their  spirit  still  have  haunted.     Could  it  be 

That  he  had  borne  the  chain  ?     Oh  !  who  shall  dare 

To  say  how  much  Man's  heart  unci  ushed  may  bear  ? 

So  deep  a  root  hath  hope  !  but  woe  for  this 

Our  frail  mortality,  that  aught  so  bright, 

So  almost  burthened  with  excess  of  bliss, 

As  the  rich  hour  which  back  to  summer's  light 

Calls  the  worn  captive,  with  the  gentle  kiss 

Of  winds,  and  gush  of  waters,  and  the  sight 

Of  the  green  earth,  must  so  be  bought  with  years 

Of  the  heart's  fever,  parching  up  its  tears, 

And  feeding,  a  slow  fire,  on  all  its  powers, 
Until  the  boon  for  which  we  gasp  in  vain, 
If  hardly  won  at  length,  too  late  made  ours, 
When  the  soul's  wing  is  broken,  comes  like  rain 
Withheld  till  evening,  on  the  stately  flowers 
Which  withered  in  the  noontide,  ne'er  again 
To  lift  their  heads  in  glory.     So  doth  Earth 
Breathe  on  her  gifts,  and  melt  away  their  worth. 


402  MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  sailor  dies  in  sight  of  that  green  shore, 

Whose  fields,  in  slumbering  beauty,  seemed  to  lie 

On  the  deep's  foam,  amidst  its  hollow  roar 

Called  up  to  sunlight  by  his  fantasy. 

And  when  the  shining  desert-mists  that  wore 

The  lake's  bright  semblance,  have  been  all  passed  Hy, 

The  pilgrim  sinks  beside  the  fountain  wave, 

Which  dashes  from  its  rock,  too  late  to  save. 

Or  if  we  live,  if  that  too  dearly  bought, 

And  made  too  precious  by  long  hopes  and  fears, 

Remain  our  own — love,  darkened  and  o'erwrought 

By  memory  of  privation — love,  which  wears 

And  casts  o'er  life  a  troubled  hue  of  thought, 

Becomes  the  shadow  of  our  closing  years. 

Making  it  almost  misery  to  possess 

Aught  watched  with  such  unquiet  tenderness. 

Such  unto  him,  the  Bard,  the  worn  and  wild, 
And  sick  with  hope  deferred,  from  whom  the  sky. 
With  all  its  clouds  in  burning  glory  piled, 
Had  been  shut  out  by  long  captivity. 
Such  freedom  was  to  Tasso.     As  a  child 
Is  to  the  mother,  whose  foreboding  eye 
In  its  too  radiant  glance  from  day  to  day, 
Reads  that  which  calls  the  brightest  first  away. 

And  he  became  a  wanderer — in  whose  breast 

Wild  fear  which,  e'en  when  every  sense  doth  sleep, 

Clings  to  the  burning  heart,  a  wakeful  guest, 

Sat  brooding  as  a  spirit,  raised  to  keep 

Its  gloomy  vigil  of  intense  unrest 

O'er  treasures  burthening  life,  and  buried  deep 

In  cavern-tomb,  and  sought  through  shades  and  stealth; 

By  some  pale  mortal,  trembling  at  his  wealth. 

But  woe  for  those  who  trample  o'er  a  mind  ! 
A  deathless  thing !     They  know  not  what  they  do, 
Nor  what  they  deal  with.     Man  perchance  may  bind 
The  flower  his  step  hath  bruised  ;  or  light  anew 
The  torch  he  quenches ;  or  to  music  wind 
Again  the  lyre-string  from  his  touch  that  flew : — 
But  for  the  soul !— oh  !  tremble,  and  beware 
To  lay  rude  hands  upon  God's  mysteries  there! 

For  blindness  wraps  that  world — our  torch  may  turn 
Some  balance  fearfully  and  darkly  hung: 
Or  put  out  some  bright  spark  whose  ray  should  burn 
To  point  the  way  a  thousand  rocks  among ; 
Or  break  some  subtle  chain  which  none  discern, 
Though  binding  down  the  terrible,  the  strong, 
The  o'ersweeping  passions,  which  to  loose  on  life 
Is  to  set  free  the  elements  for  strife. 


THE  NECROMANCER.  4OJ 

Who  then  to  power  and  glory  shall  restore 

That  which  our  evil  rashness  hath  undone ! 

Who  unto  mystic  harmony  once  more 

Attune  those  viewless  chords  ? — There  is  but  One  I 

He  that  through  dust  the  stream  of  life  can  pour, 

The  Mighty  and  the  Merciful  alone. 

—Yet  oft  His  paths  have  midnight  for  their  shade — 

He  leaves  to  Man  the  ruin  Man  hath  made. 


THE  NECROMANCER. 

"  Shall  I  make  spirits  (etch  me  what  I  please? 
Resolve  me  of  all  ambiguities  ? 
Perform  what  desperate  enterprises  I  will  ? 
I'll  have  them  fly  to  India  for  gold, 
Ransack  the  ocean  for  orient  pear), 
And  search  all  corners  of  the  New-found  World 
For  pleasant  fruits  and  princely  delicates." 

MARLOW'S  fauttut. 

AN  old  man  on  his  deathbed  lay,  an  old  yet  stately  man  ; 

His  lip  seemed  moulded  for  command,  though  quivering  now,  and  wan; 

By  fits  a  wild  and  wandering  fire  shot  from  his  troubled  eye, 

But  his  pale  brow  still  austerely  wore  its  native  mastery. 

There  were  gorgeous  things  from  lands  afar,  strewn  round  the  mystic  room  \ 
From  where  the  orient  palm-trees  wave,  bright  gc;.i  and  dazzling  plume  ; 
And  vases  with  rich  odor  filled,  that  o'er  the  couch  of  death 
Shed  forth,  like  groves  from  Indian  isles,  a  spicy  summer's  breath. 

And  sculptured  forms  of  olden  time,  in  their  strange  beauty  white, 
Stood  round  the  chamber  solemnly,  robed  as  in  ghostly  light ; 
All  passionless  and  still  they  stood,  and  shining  through  the  gloom, 
Like  watchers  of  another  world,  stern  angels  of  the  tomb. 

'Twas  silent  as  a  midnight  church,  that  dim  and  mystic  place, 
While  shadows  cast  from  many  thoughts  o'erswept  the  old  man's  face. 
He  spoke  at  last,  and  low  and  deep,  yet  piercing  was  the  tone, 
To  one  that  o'er  him  long  had  watched,  in  reverence  and  alone. 

"  I  leave,"  he  said,  "  an  empire  dread,  by  mount,  and  shore,  and  sea, 
Wider  than  Roman  Eagle's  wing  e'er  traversed  proudly  free ; 
Never  did  King  or  Kaiser  yet  such  high  dominion  boast, 
Or  Soldan  of  the  sunbeam's  clime,  girt  with  a  conquering  host. 

"  They  hear  me — they  that  dwell  far  down  where  the  sea-serpent  lies, 
And  they,  the  unseen,  on  Afric's  hills  that  sport  when  tempests  rise: 
And  they  that  rest  in  central  caves,  whence  fiery  streams  make  way, 
My  lightest  whisper  shakes  their  sleep,  they  hear  me,  and  obey. 

"  They  come  to  me  with  ancient  wealth — with  cr&wn  and  cup  of  gold. 
From  cities  roofed  with  ocean-waves,  that  buried  them  of  old  ; 


404  MISCELLANEOUS. 


Thev  come-  from  Earth's  most  hidden  veins,  which  man  shall  never  find. 
With  gems  that  have  the  hues  of  fire  deep  at  their  heart  enshrined. 

"  But  a  mightier  power  is  on  me  now — it  rules  my  struggling  breath ; 
I  have  swayed  the  rushing  elements — but  still  and  strong  is  Death, 
I  quit  my  throne,  yet  leave  I  not  my  vassal-spirits  free — 
Thou  hast  brave  and  high  aspirants,  youth! — my  Sceptre  is  for  thee' 

"  Now  listen !     I  will  teach  thee  words  whose  mastery  shall  compel 
The  viewless  ones  to  do  thy  work,  in  wave,  or  blood,  or  hell ! 
But  never,  never  mayst  thou  breathe  those  words  in  human  ear, 
Until  thou'rt  laid,  as  I  am  now,  the  grave's  dark  portals  near." 

His  voice  in  faintness  died  away, — and  a  sudden  flush  was  seen, 

A  mantling  of  the  rapid  blood  o'er  the  youth's  impassioned  mien— 

A  mantling  and  a  fading  swift,  a  look  with  sadness  fraught ; 

And  that  too  passed — and  boldly  then  rushed  forth  the  ardent  thought. 

"  Must  those  high  word%  of  sovereignty  ne'er  sound  in  human  ear  ? 
I  have  a  friend — a  noble  friend — as  life  our  freedom  dear ! 
Thou  offerest  me  a  glorious  gift — a  proud  majestic  throne, 
But  I  know  the  secrets  of  his  heart — and  shall  I  seal  mine  own  ? 

"And  there  is  one  that  loves  me  well,  with  yet  a  gentle  love — 
Oh!  is  not  her  full,  boundless  faith,  all  power,  all  wealth  above? 
Must  a  deep  gulf  between  the  souls,  now  closely  linked,  be  set  ? 
Keep,  keep  the  Sceptre-I—leave  me  free,  and  loved  and  trustful  yet  1  * 

Then  from  the  old  man's  haughty  lips  was  heard  the  sad  reply — 
"Well  hast  thou  chosen  ! — I  blame  thee  not — I  that  unwept  must  die. 
Live  thou,  beloved  and  trustful  yet ! — No  more  on  human  head 
Be  the  sorrows  of  unworthy  gifts  from  bitter  vials  shed  \  " 


.  ULLA;  OR,  THE  ADJURATION. 

"  Yet  speak  to  me !     I  have  outwatched  the  stars, 
And  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain,  in  search  of  thee. 
Speak  to  me !     I  have  wandered  o'er  the  earth, 
And  never  found  thy  likeness.     Speak  to  me  I 
This  once — once  more  !  " — Manfred. 

*  THOU'RT  gone  ! — thou'rt  slumbering  low, 

With  the  sounding  seas  above  thee: 
It  is  but  a  restless  woe, 

But  a  haunting  dream  to  love  thee  1 
Thrice  the  glad  swan  has  sung 

To  greet  the  spring-time  hours, 
Since  thine  oar  at  parting  flung 

The  white  spray  up  in  showers. 


ULLA;  OK,  THE  ADJURATION.  405 

There's  a  shadow  of  the  grave  on  thy  hearth  and  round  thy  home  ; 
*^ome  to  me  from  the  ocean's  dead  ! — thou  art  surely  of  them — come  ! " 

Twas  Ulla's  voice  !     Alone  she  stood 

In  the  Iceland  summer  night, 
Far  gazing  o'er  a  glassy  flood 

From  a  dark  rock's  beetling  height 

"  I  know  thou  hast  thy  bed 

Where  the  sea-weed's  coil  hath  bound  thee ; 
The  storm  sweeps  o'er  thy  head, 

But  the  depths  are  hushed  around  thee. 

What  wind  shall  point  the  way 

To  the  chambers  where  thou'rt  lying? 
Come  to  me  thence,  and  say 

If  thou  thought's!  on  me  in  dying 

I  will  not  shrink  to  see  thee  with  a  bloodless  lip  and  cheek. 

Come  to  me  from  the  ocean's  dead  I — thou'rt  surely  of  them — speak ! fc 

She  listened — 'twas  the  wind's  low  moan, 

'Twas  the  ripple  of  the  wave, 
'Twas  the  wakening  osprey's  cry  alone 

As  it  startled  from  its  cave. 

"  I  know  each  fearful  spell 

Of  the  ancient  Runic  lay, 
Whose  muttered  words  compel 

The  tempest  to  obey. 
But  I  adjure  not  thee 

By  magic  sign  or  song ; 
My  voice  shall  stir  the  sea 

By  love — the  deep,  the  -strong ! 

By  the  might  of  woman's  tears,  by  the  passion  of  her  sighs, 

Come  to  me  from  the  ocean's  dead ! — by  the  vows  we  pledged — arise  I " 

Again  she  gazed  with  an  eager  glance, 

Wandering  and  wildly  bright ! — 
She  saw  but  the  sparkling  waters  dance 

To  the  arrowy  northern  light 

"  By  the  slow  and  straggling  death 

Of  hope  that  loathed  to  part, 
By  the  fierce  and  withering  breath 

Of  despair  on  youth's  high  heart- 
By  the  weight  of  gloom  which  clings 

To  the  mantle  of  the  night, 
By  the  heavy  dawn  which  brings 

Naught  lovely  to  the  sight — 

By  all  that  from  my  weary  soul  thou  hast  wrung  of  grief  and  fear, 
Come  to  me  from  the  ocean's  dead!    Awake,  arise,  appear  1 " 


406  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Was  it  her  yearning  spirit's  dream? 

Or  did  a  pale  form  rise, 
And  o'er  the  hushed  wave  glide  and  gleam, 

With  bright,  still,  mournful  eyes  ? 

"  Have  the  depths  heard  ?    They  have  I 

My  voice  prevails — thou'rt  there, 
Dim  from  thy  watery  grave — 

O  thou  that  wert  so  fair ! 

Yet  take  me  to  thy  rest! 

There  dwells  no  fear  with  love; 
Let  me  slumber  on  thy  breast, 

While  the  billow  rolls  above! 

Where  the  long-lost  things  lie  hid,  where  the  bright  ones  have  their  home, 
We  will  sleep  among  the  ocean's  dead.     Stay  for  me,  stay ! — I  come  ! " 

There  was  a  sullen  plunge  below, 

A  flashing  on  the  main ; 
And  the  wave  shut  o'er  that  wild  heart's  woe — 

Shut,  and  grew  still  again. 


TO  WORDSWORTH. 

THINE  is  a  strain  to  read  among  the  hills, 
The  old  and  full  of  voices, — by  the  source 

Of  some  free  stream,  whose  gladdening  presence  fills 
The  solitude  with  sound ;  for  in  its  course 

Even  such  is  thy  deep  song,  that  seems  a  part 

Of  those  high  scenes,  a  fountain  from  their  heart 

Or  its  calm  spirit  fitly  may  be  taken 

To  the  still  breast  in  sunny  garden  bowers, 

Where  vernal  winds  each  tree's  low  tones  awaken, 
And  bud  and  bell  with  changes  mark  the  hours. 

There  let  thy  thoughts  be  with  me,  while  the  day 

Sinks  with  a'  golden  and  serene  decay. 

Or  by  some  hearth  where  happy  faces  meet, 

When  night  hath  hushed  the  woods,  with  all  their  bird*, 
There,  from  some  gentle  voice,  that  lay  were  sweet 

As  antique  music,  linked  with  household  words ; 
While  in  pleased  murmurs  woman's  lip  might  move, 
And  the  raised  eye  of  childhood  shine  in  love. 

Or  where  the  shadows  of  dark  solemn  yews 

Brood  silently  o'er  some  lone  burial-ground, 
Thy  verse  hath' power  that  brightly  might  diffuse 


TO  THE  bfEMOR  Y  OF  HEBER. 


407 


A  breath,  a  kindling,  as  of  spring,  around  ; 
From  its  own  glow  of  hope  and  courage  high, 
And  steadfast  faith's  victorious  constancy. 

True  bard  and  holy  ! — thou  art  e'en  as  one 

Who,  by  some  secret  gift  of  soul  or  eye, 
In  every  spot  beneath  the  smiling  sun, 

vSees  where  the  springs  of  living  waters  lie: 
Unseen  awhile  they  sleep — till,  touched  by  thee, 
Bright  healthful  waves  flow  forth,  to  each  glad  wanderer  free. 


A   MONARCH'S   DEATHBED. 


s  Emperor  -A'.hcrt  of  H'apsburp,  who  was  assassinated  by  his  nephew,  afterwards  called 
•»hr.  the  Parriciue,  was  left  to  die  by  the  wayside,  and  only  supported  in  his  last  moments 
y  '  female  peasant,  who  happened  to  be  passing.] 


A  MONARCH  on  his  deathbed  lay — 

Did  censers  waft  perfume, 
And  soft  lamps  pour  their  silvery  ray, 

Through  his  proud  chamber's  gloom? 
He  lay  upon  a  greensward  bed, 

Beneath  a  darkening  sky — 
A  lone  tree  waving  o'er  his  head, 

A  swift  stream  rolling  by. 

Had  he  then  fallen  as  warriors  fall, 

Where  spear  strikes  fire  with  spear? 
Was  there  a  banner  for  his  pall, 

A  buckler  for  his  bier? 
Not  so — nor  cloven  shields  nor  helms 

Had  strewn  the  bloody  sod, 
\Y!icre  he,  the  helpless  lord  of  realms, 

Yielded  his  soul  to  God. 


Were  there  not  friends  with  words  of 
cheer, 

And  princely  vassals  nigh  ? 
And  priests,  the  crucifix  to  rear 

Before  the  glazing  eye? 
A  peasant  girl  that  royal  head 

Upon  her  boso.yi  laid, 
And,  shrinking  rot  for  woman's  dread. 

The  face  of  death  surveyed. 

Alone  she  sat:  from  hill  and  wood 

Red  sank  the  moumful  sun; 
Fast  gushed  the  fount  of  noble  blood — 

Treason  its  worst  had  done. 
With  her  long  hair  she  vainly  pressed 

The  wounds,  to  stanch  their  tide — 
Unknown,  on  that  meek  humble  breast 

Imperial  Albert  died ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HEBER. 
"  Umile  in  tantt  gloria."— PBTR ARCH. 

IF  it  be  sad  to  speak  of  treasures  gone, 

Of  sainted  genius  called  too  soon  away, 
Of  light  from  this  world  taken,  while  it  shone 

Yet  kindling  onward  to  the  perfect  day- 
How  shall  our  grief,  if  mournful  these  things  bo, 
Flow  forth,  O  thou  of  many  gifts  !  for  thee  ? 


408  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Hath  not  thy  voice  been  here  amongst  us  heard  ? 

And  that  deep  soul  of  gentleness  and  power, 
Have  we  not  felt  its  breath  in  every  word 

Wont  from  thy  lips  as  Hermon's  dew  to  shower? 
Yes  !  in  our  hearts  thy  fervent  thoughts  have  burned—- 
Of heaven  they  were,  and  thither  have  returned. 

How  shall  we  mourn  thee  ?     With  a  lofty  trust, 
Our  life's  immortal  birthright  from  above  ! 

With  a  glad  faith,  whose  eye,  to  track  the  just, 

Through  shades  and  mysteries  lifts  a  glance  of  love, 

And  yet  can  weep  ! — for  nature  thus  deplores 

The  friend  that  leaves  us,  though  for  happier  shores. 

And  one  high  tone  of  triumph  o'er  thy  bier, 
One  strain  of  solemn  rapture,  be  allowed ! 

Thou,  that  rejoicing  on  thy  mid  career, 
Not  to  decay,  but  unto  death  hast  bowed, 

In  those  bright  regions  of  the  rising  sun, 

Where  victory  ne'er  a  crown  like  thine  had  won. 

Praise !  for  yet  one  more  name  with  power  endowed 
To  cheer  and  guide  us,  onward  as  we  press ; 

Yet  one  more  image  on  the  heart  bestowed 
To  dwell  there,  beautiful  in  holiness  ! 

Thine,  Heber,  thine  !  whose  memory  from  the  dead 

Shines  as  the  star  which  to  the  Saviour  led ! 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILD. 

*  WHY  wouldst  thou  leave  me,  O  gentle  child  ? 
Thy  home  on  the  mountain  is  bleak  and  wild, 
A  straw-roofed  cabin,  with  lowly  wall — 
Mine  is  a  fair  and  pillared  hall, 
Where  many  an  image  of  marble  gleams, 
And  the  sunshine  of  picture  forever  streams." 

"  Oh  !  green  is  the  turf  where  my  brothers  piay, 
Through  the  long  bright  hours  of  the  summer  day , 
They  find  the  red  cup-moss  where  they  climb, 
And  they  chase  the  bee  o'er  the  scented  thyme, 
And  the  rocks  where  the  heath-flower  blooms  they  know- 
Lady,  kind  lady !  oh,  let  me  go ! " 

"  Content  thee,  boy  !  in  my  bower  to  dwell — 
Here  are  sweet  sounds  which  thou  lovest  well; 
Flutes  on  the  air  in  the  stilly  noon, 
Harps  which  the  wandering  breezes  tune, 
And  the  silvery  wood-note  of  many  a  bird 
Whose  voice  was  ne'er  in  thy  mountains  heard." 


INVOCATION: 


409 


"Oh  I  my  mother  sings  at  the  twilight's  fall, 
A  song  of  the  hills  far  more  sweet  than  all ; 
She  sings  it  under  her  own  green  tree, 
To  the  babe  half  slumbering  on  her  knee; 
I  dreamt  last  night  of  that  music  low — 
Lady,  kind  lady  1  oh,  let  me  go  ! " 

"  Thy  mother  is  gone,  from  her  cares  to  rest — 
She  hath  taken  the  babe  on  her  quiet  breast; 
Thou  wouldst  meet  her  footstep,  my  boy  I  no  more, 
Nor  hear  the  song  at  the  cabin  door. 
Come  thou  with  me  to  the  vineyard  nigh, 
And  we'll  pluck  the  grapes  of  the  richest  die." 

"  Is  my  mother  gone  from  her  home  away  ? 

But  I  know  that  my  brothers  are  there  at  play — 

I  know  they  are  gathering  the  foxglove's  bell 

Or  the  long  fern-leaves  by  the  sparkling  well ; 

Or  they  launch  their  boats  where  the  bright  streams  flo^ 

Lady,  kind  lady  I  oh,  let  me  go  ! " 

"  Fair  child  !  thy  brothers  are  wanderers  now, 
They  sport  no  more  on  the  mountain's  brow ; 
They  have  left  the  fem  by  the  spring's  green  side, 
And  the  streams  where  the  fairy  barks  were  tried. 
Be  thou  at  peace  in  thy  brighter  lot, 
For  thy  cabin  home  is  a  lonely  spot." 

"Are  they  gone,  all  gone  from  the  sunny  hill?— 
But  the  bird  and  the  blue-fly  rove  o'er  it  still ; 
And  the  red-deer  bound  in  their  gladness  free, 
And  the  heath  is  bent  by  the   singing  bee, 
And  the  waters  leap,  and  the  fresh  winds  blow- 
Lady,  kind  lady !  oh,  let  me  go  1 " 


INVOCATION. 

"  I  called  on  dreams  and  visions,  to  disclose 
That  which  is  veiled  from  waking  thought ;  conjured 
Eternity,  as  men  constrain  a  ghost 
To  appear  and  answer."— WORDSWORTH. 


ANSWER  me,  burning  stars  of  night! 

Where  is  the  spirit  gone, 
That  past  the  reach  of  human  sight 

As  a  swift  breeze  hath  flown  ? 
And  the  stars  answered  me — "We  roll 

In  light  and  power  on  high; 
But,  of  the  never-dying  soul, 

Ask  that  which  cannot  die." 


O  many-toned  and  chainless  wind  I 

Thou  art  a  wanderer  free ; 
Tell  me  if  thou  its  place  canst  find, 

Far  over  mount  and  sea  ? 
And  the  wind  murmured  in  reply — 

"  The  blue  deep  I  have  crossed, 
And  met  its  barks  and  billows  high, 

But  not  what  thou  hast  lost." 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Ye  clouds  that  gorgeously  repose 

Around  the  setting  sun, 
Answer  1  have  ye  a  home  for  those 

W  hose  earthly  race  is  run  ? 
j'hebright  clouds  answered — "  We  de- 
part, 

We  vanish  from  the  sky  ; 
Ask  what  is  deathless  in  thy  heart, 

For  that  which  cannot  die." 


S«ak,  then,  thou  voice  of  God  within, 

f  hou  of  the  deep  low  tone  ! 
Answer  me,  through  life's  restless  din— • 

Where  is  the  spirit  flown  ? 
And  the  voice  answered — "Be  thou  still! 

Enough  to  know  is  given ! 
Clouds,  winds,  and  stars  //4«'rpart  ful- 
fil— 

Thine  is,  to  trust  in  Heaven." 


KORNER  AND  HIS  SISTER. 

i"  Charles  Theodore  Korner,  the  celebrated  young  German  poet  and  soldier,  was  killed  in  a 
skirmish  with  a  detachment  of  French  troops  on  the  zoth  of  August,  1813,  a  few  hours  after 
the  composition  of  his  popular  piece,  The  Sword  Song.  He  was  buried  at  the  village  of 
Wobbelm  in  Mecklenburg,  under  a  beautiful  oak,  in  a  recess  of  which  he  had  frequently  de- 
posited yerses  composed  by  him  while  campaigning  in  its  vicinity.  The  monument  erected 
to  his  memory  is  of  cast-iron  ;  and  the  upper  part  is  wrought  into  a  lyre  and  sword,  a  favor- 
ite emblem  oi  Korner' s,  from  which  one  of  his  works  had  been  entitled.  Near  the  grave 
of  the  poet  is  that  of  his  only  sister,  who  died  of  grief  for  his  loss,  having  only  survived  him 
long  enough  to  complete  his  portrait  and  a  drawing  of  his  burial-place.  Over  the  gate  of  the 
cemetery  is  engraved  one  of  his  own  lines : — 

'  Venriss  die  treuen  Todten  nicht.' 
(Forget  not  the  faithful  dead.)  " 

'-See  RICHARDSON'S  Translation  of 'Korner 't  Life  and  Works,  and  DOWNB'S  Letters  from 
Veckltntmrg.] 

GREEN  wave  the  oak  forever  o'er  thy  rest, 

Thou  that  beneath  its  crowning  foliage  sleepest, 

And,  in  the  stillness  of  thy  country's  breast, 
Thy  place  of  memory  as  an  altar  keepest ; 

Brightly  thy  spirit  o'er  her  hills  were  poured, 
Thou  of  the  Lyre  and  Sword ! 

Rest,  bard !  rest,  soldier !     By  the  father's  hand 

Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be  led, 
With  his  wreath -offering  silently  to  stand 

In  the  hushed  presence  of  the  glorious  dead — 
Soldier  and  bard  !  for  thou  thy  path  hast  trod 
With  freedom  and  with  God. 

The  oak  waved  proudly  o'er  thy  burial  rite, 
On  thy  crowned  bier  to  slumber  warriors  bore  thee, 

And  with  true  hearts  thy  brethren  of  the  fight 

Wept  as  they  veiled  their  drooping  banners  o'er  the*) 

And  the  deep  guns  with  rolling  peal  gave  token 
That  Lyre  and  Sword  were  broken. 


KORNER  AND  HIS  SISTER.  4" 

Thou  hast  a  hero's  tomb  :  a  lowlier  bed 

Is  hers,  the  gentle  girl  beside  thee  lying — 
The  gentle  girl  that  bowed  her  fair  young  head 

When  thou  wert  gone,  in  silent  sorrow  dying. 
Brother,  true  friend  !  the  tender  and  the  brave  !— 
She  pined  to  share  thy  grave. 

Fame  was  thy  gift  from  others ; — but  for  her, 
To  whom  the  wide  world  lield  that  only  spot, 

She  loved  thee  ! — lovely  in  your  lives  ye  were, 
And  in  your  early  deaths  divided  not. 

Thou  hast  thine  oak,  thy  trophy, — what  hath  she  ? 
Her  own  blessed  place  by  thee  ! 

It  was  thy  spirit,  brother  !  which  had  made 
The  bright  earth  glorious  to  her  youthful  eye, 

Since  first  in  childhood  midst  the  vines  ye  played, 
And  sent  glad  singing  through  the  free  blue  sky. 

Ye  were  but  two — and  when  the  spirit  passed, 
Woe  to  the  one,  the  last ! 

Woe,  yet  not  long  !     She  lingered  but  to  trace 
Thine  image  from  the  image  of  her  breast- 
Once,  once  again  to  see  that  buried  face 

But  smile  upon  her,  ere  she  went  to  rest. 
Too  sad  a  smile!  its  living  light  was  o'er—- 
It answered  hers  no  more. 

The  earth  grew  silent  when  thy  voice  departed, 
The  home  too  lonely  whence  thy  step  had  fled ; 

What  then  was  left  for  her  the  faithful-hearted? 
Death  death,  to  still  the  yearning  for  the  dead  I 

Softly  she  perished  :  be  the  flower  deplored 
Here  with  the  Lyre  and  the  Sword ! 

Have  ye  not  met  ere  now  !— so  let  those  trust 
That  meet  for  moments  but  to  part  for  years — 

That  weep,  watch,  pray,  to  hold  back  dust  from  dust- 
That  love,  where  love  is  but  a  fount  of  tears. 

Brother  !  sweet  sister !  peace  around  ye  dwell  : 
Lyre,  Sword,  and  Flower,  farewell  1  * 

l  The  following  lines,   addressed  to   the    author  of   the   above  by  the   venerable   father  ol 
•Corner,  who,  with  the  mother,  survived  the  "  Lyre,  Sword,  and  Flower,     here  comnx 
«ay  not  be  uninteresting  to  the  German  reader  : — 

Wohllaut  tor.t  aus  der  Feme  von  freundlichen  Luften  getragen, 

Schmeichelt  mit  lindemder  Kraft  sich  in  der  Trauernden  Ohr, 

Starkt  den  erhebenden  Glauben  an  solcher  seelen  Verwandschait, 

Die  rum  Tempel  die  brust  nur  fOr  das  Wiirdlge  weihn. 

Aus  dem  Lande  zu  dem  sich  stets  der  gefeyerte  Junghng 

Hingerogen  gefiihlt,  wird  ihm  ein  glaicndcr  Lohn. 

Heil  dem  Brittischen  Volke,  wenn  ihm  das  Deutsche  merit  tremd  ut  I 

Uber  Lander  und  Me«r  reichen  sich  beyde  die  Hand. 

Tkiodor  A  tnurt 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  DEATH-DAY  OF  KORNER.1 


A  SONG  for  the  death-day  of  the  brave — 

A  song  of  pride  ! 
The  youth  went  down  to  a  hero's  grave, 

With  the  sword,  his  bride.2 

He  went  with  his  noble  heart  unworn, 

And  pure,  and  high — 
An  eagle  stooping  from  clouds  of  morn, 

Only  to  die. 

He  went  with  lyre  whose  lofty  tone 

Beneath  his  hand 

Had  thrilled  to  the  name  of  his  God 
alone 

And  his  fatherland. 

And  with  all  his  glorious  feelings  yet 

In  their  first  glow, 

Like  a  southern  stream  that  no  frost 
hath  met 

To  chain  its  flow. 

A  song  for  the  death-day  of  the  brave — 
A  song  of  pride ! 


"For  him  that  went  to  a  hero's  grave, 
With  the  sword,  his  bride. 

He  hath  left   a  voice  in  his  trumpet 
lays 

To  turn  the  flight, 
And  a  guiding  spirit  for  after  days. 

Like  a  watch-fire's  light. 

And  a  grief  in  his  father's  soul  to  rest, 

Midst  all  high  thought ; 
And   a  memory   unto    his     mother's 
breast, 

With  healing  fraught. 

And  a  name  and  fame  above  the  blight 

Of  earthly  breath, 
Beautiful — beautiful  and  bright, 

In  life  and  death  1 

A  song  for  the  death-day  of  the  brave  •<• 

A  song  of  pride ! 
For  him  that  went  to  a  hero's  grave. 

With  the  sword,  his  bride  ! 


AN  HOUR  OF  ROMANCE. 

"  I  come 

To  this  sweet  place  for  quiet.     Every  tree 
And  bush,  and  fragrant  flower,  and  hilly  path, 
And  thymy  mound  that  flings  unto  the  winds 
Its  morning  incense,  is  my  friend." — BARRY  CORNWALL 

THERE  were  thick  leaves  above  me  and  around, 

And  low  sweet  sighs  like  those  of  childhood's  sleep, 
Amidst  their  dimness,  and  a  fitful  sound 

As  of  soft  showers  on  water  ;  dark  and  deep 
Lay  the  oak  shadows  o'er  the  turf,  so  still 
They  seemed  but  pictured  glooms ;  a  hidden  rill 
Made  music,  such  as  haunts  us  in  a  dream, 
Under  the  fern-tufts  ;  and  a  tender  gleam 
Of  a  soft  green  light,  as  by  the  glow-worm  shed, 

Came  pouring  through  the  woven  beech-boughs  down 
And  steeped  the  magic  page  wherein  I  read 

Of  royal  chivalry  and  old  renown, 

1  On  reading  part  of  a  letter  from  Korner's  father,  addressed  to  Mr.  Richardson,  the  Iran* 
lator  of  his  works,  in  which  he  speaks  of  "  The  D^ath-dny  of  his  son." 

»  See  The  Sward,  Song  composed  on  the  morning  of  his  death. 


A   VOYAGER'S  DREAM  OF  LAND.  4*3 


A  tale  of  Palestine.1     Meanwhile  the  bee 

Swept  past  me  with  a  tone  of  summer  hours— 
A  drowsy  bugle,  wafting  thoughts  of  flowers, 

Blue  skies,  and  amber  sunshine  :  brightly  free, 

On  filmy  wings,  the  purple  dragon-fly 

Shot  glancing  like  a  fairy  javelin  by  ; 

And  a  sweet  voice  of  sorrow  told  the  dell 
Where  sat  the  lone  wood-pigeon. 

But  ere  long, 
All  sense  of  these  things  faded,  as  the  spell 

Breathing  from  that  high  gorgeous  tale  grew  strong 
On  my  chained  soul.     'Twas  not  the  leaves  I  heard  ;— 
A  Syrian  wind  the  lion-banner  stirred, 
Through  its  proud  floating  folds.     'Twas  not  the  brook 

Singing  in  secret  through  its  glassy  glen ; — 

A  wild  shrill  trumpet  of  the  Saracen 
Pealed  from  the  desert's  lonely  heart,  and  shook 
The  burning  air.     Like  clouds  when  winds  are  high, 
O'er  glittering  sands  flew  steeds  of  Araby, 
And  tents  rose  up,  and  sudden  lance  and  spear 
Flashed  where  a  fountain's  diamond  wave  lay  clear, 
Shadowed  by  graceful  palm-trees.     Then  the  shout 
Of  merry  England's  joy  swelled  freely  out, 
Sent  through  an  eastern  heaven,  whose  glorious  hue 
Made  shields  dark  mirrors  to  its  depths  of  blue  : 
And  harps  were  there — I  heard  their  sounding  strings 
As  the  waste  echoed  to  the  mirth  of  kings. 
The  bright  mask  faded.     Unto  life's  worn  track, 
What  called  me  from  its  flood  of  glory  back  ? 
A  voice  of  happy  childhood ! — and  they  passed, 
Banner,  and  harp,  and  Paynim's  trumpet's  blast 
Yet  might  I  scarce  bewail  the  splendors  gone, 
My  heart  so  leaped  to  that  sweet  laughter's  tone. 


A  VOYAGER'S  DREAM  OF  LAND 

"His  very  heart  athirst 
To  gaze  at  nature  in  her  green  array, 
Upon  the  ship's  tall  side  he  stands  possessed 
With  visions  prompted  by  intense  desire  ; 
Fair  fields  appear  below,  such  as  he  left 
Far  distai't,  such  as  he  would  die  to  find  : 
He  seeks  them  headlong,  and  is  seen  no  more.   — CowpkK. 

THE  hollow  clash  of  waves !— the  ceaseless  roar  !— 
Silence,  ye  billows  ! — vex  my  soul  no  more. 


Talisman— Tale  of  tht  Cnuadtrt. 


414  MISCELLANEOUS. 

There's  a  spring  in  the  woods  by  my  sunny  home, 

Afar  from  the  dark  sea's  tossing  foam ; 

Oh  !  the  fall  of  that  fountain  is  sweet  to  hear, 

As  a  song  from  the  shore  to  the  sailor's  ear  ! 

Through  the  feathery  fern  and  the  olive  bought, 

And  the  gleam  on  its  path  as  it  steals  away 

Into  deeper  shades  from  the  sultry  day, 

And  the  large  water-lilies  that  o'er  its  bed 

Their  pearly  leaves  to  the  soft  light  spread, 

They  haunt  me  !  I  dream  of  that  bright  spring's  flow, 

I  thirst  for  its  rills  like  a  wounded  roe  ! 

Be  still,  thou  sea-bird,  with  thy  clanging  cry 
My  spirit  sickens  as  thy  wing  sweeps  by. 

Know  ye  my  home,  with  the  lulling  sound 

Of  leaves  from  the  lime  and  the  chestnut  round  ? 

Know  ye  it,  brethren!  where  bowered  it  lies 

Under  the  purple  of  southern  skies? 

With  the  streamy  gold  of  the  sun  that  shines 

In  through  the  cloud  of  its  clustering  vines, 

And  the  summer  breath  of  the  myrtle  flowers, 

Borne  from  the  mountain  in  dewy  hours, 

And  the  fire-fly's  glance  through  the  darkening  shades. 

Like  shooting  stars  in  the  forest  glades, 

And  the  scent  of  the  citron  at  eve's  dim  fall — 

Speak  !  have  ye  known,  have  ye  felt  them  all  ? 

The  heavy  rolling  surge  !  the  rocking  mast ! — 
Hush  !  give  my  dream's  deep  music  way,  thou  blast ! 

Oh,  the  glad  sounds  of  the  joyous  earth  ! 

The  notes  of  the  singing  cicala's  mirth, 

The  murmurs  that  live  in  the  mountain  pines, 

The  sighing  of  reeds  as  the  day  declines, 

The  wings  flitting  home  through  the  crimson  glow 

That  steeps  the  wood  when  the  sun  is  low, 

The  voice  of  the  night-bird  that  sends  a  thrill 

To  the  heart  of  the  leaves  when  the  winds  are  still — 

I  hear  them  ! — around  me  they  rise,  they  swell, 

They  call  back  my  spirit  with  Hope  to  dwell — 

They  come  with  a  breath  from  the  fresh  spring-time, 

And  waken  my  youth  in  its  hour  of  prime. 

The  white  foam  dashes  high — away,  away ! 

Shroud  my  green  land  no  more,  thou  blinding  spray! 

It  is  there  !— down  the  mountain  I  see  the  sweep 
Of  the  chestnut  forests,  the  rich  and  deep, 
With  the  burden  and  glory  of  flowers  they  bear 
Floating  upborne  on  the  blue  summer  air, 


THE  EFFIGIES. 


415 


And  the  light  pouring  through  them  in  tender  gleams, 

And  the  flashing  forth  of  a  thousand  streams  ! 

Hold  me  not,  brethren  !  I  go,  I  go 

To  the  hills  of  my  youth,  where  the  myrtles  blow, 

To  the  depths  of  the  woods,  where  the  shadows  rest, 

Massy  and  still,  on  the  greensward's  breast. 

To  the  rocks  that  resound  with  the  water's  play — 

I  hear  the  sweet  laugh  of  my  fount — give  way  1 

Give  way  ! — the  booming  surge,  the  tempest's  roar 
The  sea-bird's  wail  shall  vex  mv  soul  no  more. 


THE  EFFIGIES. 

'  Der  rasche  Kampf  verewigt  cinen  Mann : 
Er  talle  gleich,  so  prciset  ihn  das  Lied. 
Allein  die  Thranen,  die  unendlichen 
Der  Uberbliebnen,  der  verlass'nen  Frau, 
Zahlt  keine  Nachwelt."— GOETHB. 


WARRIOR!  whose  image  on  thy  tomb. 

With  shield  and  crested  head. 
Sleeps  soundly  in  the  purple  gloom 

By  the  stained  window  shed  ; 
The  records  of  thy  name  and  race 

Have  faded  from  the  stone, 
Yet,  through  a  cloud  of  years,  I  trace 

What  thou  hast  been  and  done. 

A  banner,  from  its  flashing  spear, 

Flung  out  o'er  many  a  fight ; 
A  war-cry  ringing  far  and  clear, 

And  strong  to  turn  the  flight ; 
An  arm  that  bravely  bore  the  lance 

On  for  the  holy  shrine  ; 
A  haughty  heart  and  a  kingly  glance — 

Chief  !  were  not  these  things  thine  ? 

A  lofty  place  where  leaders  sate 
Around  the  council  board ; 

In  festal  halls  a  chair  of  state 
When  the  blood-red  wine  was  poured: 

A  name  that  drew  a  prouder  tone 
From  herald,  harp,  and  bard : 

Surely  these  things  were  all  thine  own- 
So  hadst  thou  thy  reward. 

Woman !    whose   sculptured    form    at 
rest 

By  the  armed  knight  is  laid, 
With  meek  hands  folded  o'er  a  breast 

In  matron  robes  arrayed  j 


What  was  thy  tale  ? — O  gentle  mate 

Of  him,  the  bold  and  free, 
Bound  unto  his  victorious  fate, 

What  bard  hath  sung  of  thee? 

He  wooed  a  bright  and  burning  star — 

Thine  was  the  void,  the  gloOm, 
The  straining  eye  that  followed  far 

His  fast- receding  plume; 
The  heart-sick  listening  while  his  steed 

Sent  echoes  on  the  breeze  ; 
The  pang — but  when  did  Fame  take 
heed 

Of  griefs  obscure  as  these  ? 

Thy  silent  and  secluded  hours 

Through  many  a  lonely  day 
While  bending  o'er  thy  broidered  flow 
ers, 

With  spirits  far  away ; 
Thy  weeping  midnight  prayers  for  him 

Who  fought  on  Syrian  plains, 
Thy  watchings  till  the  torch  grew  dim- 

These  fill  no  minstrel  strains. 
A  still,  sad  life  was  thine !— long  yean 

With  tasks  unguerdoned  fraught- 
Deep,  quiet  love,  submissive  tears, 

Vigils  of  anxious  thought ; 
Prayer  at  the  cross  in  fervor  poured, 

A'lms  to  the  pilgrim  given —  . 
Oh !  happy,  happier  than  thy  lord, 

In  that  lone  path  to  heaven  ' 


416 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  IN  NEW 
ENGLAND. 


*  Look  now  abroad  !     Another  race  has  filled 

Those  populous  borders — wide  the  wood  recedes, 
And  towns  shoot  up.  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled  ; 
Ths  land  is  full  of  harvest  and  green  meads."— BRYANT. 


THE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  m  >ored  their 
bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 
They,  the  true-hearted,  came  ; 

Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 
And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear; — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert 
gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 
v  And  the  stars  heard  and  the  sea ; 
And   the   sounding  aisles  of  the  dim 

woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free  I 


The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's 

foam ;  [roared — 

And   the   rocking  pines  of  the  forest 

This  was  their  welcome  home  1 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 
Amidst  that  pilgrim  band  ;— 

Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 
Away  from  their  childhood's  land? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 
Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ; 

There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely 

high, 
And,  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ?— 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The    wealth    of    seas,   the    spoils    of 
war  ? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trode. 
They  have   left  unstained  what  ther< 
they  found — 

Freedom  to  worship 


THE  SPIRIT'S  MYSTERIES. 

**  And  slight,  withal,  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 

Aside  forever ; — it  may  be  a  sound — 
A  tone  of  music — summer's  breath,  or  spring — 

A  flower — a  leaf — the  ocean — which  may  wound — 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound. 

Childe  Hartli 

THE  power  that  dwelleth  in  sweet  sounds  to  waken 
Vague  yearnings,  like  the  sailor's  for  the  shore, 

And  dim  remembrances,  whose  hue  seems  taken 
From  some  bright  former  state,  our  own  no  more ; 

Is  not  this  all  a  mystery  ?     Who  shall  say 

Whence  are  those  thoughts,  and  whither  tends  their  way  ? 


THE  SPIRIT'S  MYSTKRIES.  417 

The  sudden  images  of  vanished  things 

That  o'er  the  spirit  flash,  we  know  not  why ; 
Tones  from  some  broken  harp's  deserted  strings, 

Warm  sunset  hues  of  summers  long  gone  by ; 
A  rippling  wave — the  dashing  of  an  oar — 
A  flower-scent  floating  past  our  parents'  door  ; 

A  word — scarce  noted  in  its  hour  perchance, 

Yet  back  returning  with  a  plaintive  tone  ; 
A  smile — a  sunny  or  a  mournful  glance, 

Full  of  sweet  meanings  now  from  this  world  flown; 
Are  not  these  mysteries  when  to  life  they  start, 
And  press  vain  tears  in  gushes  from  the  heart  ? 

And  the  far  wanderings  of  the  soul  in  dreams, 

Calling  up  shrouded  faces  from  the  dead, 
And  with  them  bringing  soft  or  solemn  gleams, 

Familiar  objects  brightly  to  o'erspread ; 
And  wakening  buried  love,  or  joy,  or  fear — 
These  are  nient's  mysteries — who  shall  make  them  clear  I 

And  the  strange  inborn  sense  of  coming  ill, 

That  ofttimes  whispers  to  the  haunted  breast, 
In  a  low  tone  which  naught  can  drown  or  still, 

'Midst  feasts  and  melodies  a  secret  guest ; 
Whence  doth  that  murmur  wake,  that  shadow  fall  ? 
Why  shakes  the  spirit  thus  ?    'Tis  mystery  all ! 

Darkly  we  move — we  press  upon  the  brink 

Haply  of  viewless  worlds,  and  know  it  not ; 
Yes !  it  may  be,  that  nearer  than  we  think 

Are  those  whom  death  has  parted  from  our  lot! 
Fearfully,  wondrously,  our  souls  are  made — 
Let  us  walk  humbly  on,  but  undismayed  ! 

Humbly — for  knowledge  strives  in  vain  to  feel 

Her  way  amidst  these  marvels  of  the  mind  ; 
Yet  undismayed — for  do  they  not  reveal 

The  immortal  being  with  our  dust  entwined  ? 
So  let  us  deem  !  and  e'en  the  tears  they  wake 
Stall  then  be  blest,  for  that  high  nature's  sake. 


4*8                                         MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE  DEPARTED. 

"  Thou  shall  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —  with  kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth  —  the  wise  —  the  good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre."  —  BRYANT. 

AND  shrink  ye  from  the  way 

Linger  then  yet  awhile, 

To  the  spirit's  distant  shore  ?  — 

As  the  last  leaves  upon  the  bough  !— 

Earth's  mightiest  men,  in  armed  array, 

Ye  have   loved  the   light   of  many  a 

Are  thither  gone  before. 

smile 

The  warrior-kings,  whose  banner 

That  is  taken  from  you  now. 

Flew  far  as  eagles  fly, 

There  have  been  sweet  singing  voices 

They  are  gone   where    swords    avail 

In  your  walks,  that  now  are  still  ; 

them  not, 

There  are  seats  left  void  in  your  earthly 

From  the  feast  of  victor}'. 

homes, 

And  the  seers  who  sat  of  yore 
By  Orient  palm  or  wave, 
They  have  passed  with  all  their  starry 
lore  — 

Which  none  again  may  fill. 

Soft  eyes  are  seen  no  more, 
That  made  spring-time  in  your  heart 
Kindred  and  friends  are  gone  before  — 

Can^<?  still  fear  the  grave  ? 

And  ye  still  fear  to  part? 

We  fear  !  we  fear  !  the  sunshine 
Is  joyous  to  behold, 

We  fear  not  now,  we  fear  not  ! 
Though  the  way  through  darknesa 

And  we  reck  not  of  the  buried  kings, 
Nor  the  awful  seers  of  old. 

bends  ; 
Our  souls  are  strong  to  follow  them, 
Our  own  familiar  friends  1 

-  Ye  shrink  !  the  bards  whose  lays 

Have  made  your  deep  hearts  burn, 

•  

They  have  left  the  sun  and  the  voice 

THE  PALM  TREE.' 

of  praise, 

For  the  land  whence  none  return. 

It  waved  not  through  an  eastern  sky, 

And  the  beautiful,  whose  record 

Beside  a  fount  of  Araby  ; 

Is  the  verse  that  cannot  die, 

It  was  not  fanned  by  southern  breeze 

They  too  are  gone,  with  their  glorious 
bloom, 

In  some  green  Isle  of  Indian  seas  ; 
Nor  did  its  graceful  shadow  sleep 

From  the  Jove  of  human  eye. 

O'er  stream  of  .Afric,  lone  and  deep. 

Would  ye  not  join  that  throng 
Of  the  earth's  departed  flowers,   ' 

But  fair  the  exiled  palm-tree  grew 
'Midst  foliage  of  no  kindred  hue  ; 

And  the  masters  of  th_  mighty  song 

Through  the  laburnum's  dropping  gold 

In  their  far  and  fadeless  bowers  ? 

Rose  the  light  shaft  of  orient  mould, 

Those  songs  are  high  and  holy, 
But  they  vanquish  not  our  fear  : 

And  Europe's  violets,  faintly  sweet, 
Purpled  the  moss-beds  at  its  feet 

Not  from  our  path  these  flowers  are 

Strange  looked  it  there  !    The  willow 

gone  — 

streamed 

We  fain  would  linger  here  1 

Where  silvery  waters  near  it  gleamed; 

1  This  incident  is,  I  think,  recorded  by  De  Lille,  in  his  poem  of  Lei  Jarditu. 

THE  CHILD'S  LAST  SLEEP. 


419 


The  lime-bough  lured  the  honey-bee 
To  murmur  by  the  desert's  tree, 
And  showers  of  snowy  roses  made 
A  lustre  in  its  fan-like  shade. 

There  came  an  eve  of  festal  hours — 
Rich  music  filled  that  garden's  bowers  ; 
Lamps,  that  from   flowering  branches 

hung, 

On  sparks  of  dew  soft  color  flung  ; 
And    bright     forms  glanced — a   fairy 

show — 
Under  the  blossoms  to  and  fro. 

But  one,  a  lone  one,  'midst  the  throng. 
Seemed  reckless  all  of  dance  or  song . 
He  was  a  youth  of  dusky  mien, 
Whereon  the  Indian  sun  had  been, 
Of  crested  brow  and  long  black  hair — 
A  stranger,  like  the  palm-tree  there. 

And  slowly,  sadly,  moved  his  plumes, 
Glittering  athwart  the  leafy  glooms. 
He  passed  the  pale-green  olives  by, 
Nor  won  the  chestnut  flowers  his  eye  ; 
But  when  to  that  sole  palm  he  came, 
Then  shot  a  rapture  through  his  frame  ! 


To  him,  to  him  its  rustling  spoke—- 
The silence  of  his  soul  it  broke  ! 
It  whispered  of  his  own  bright  isle 
That  lit  the  ocean  with  a  smile ; 
Ay  to  his  ear  that  native  tone 
Had  something  of  the  sea-wave's  moan 

His  mother's  cabin-home,  that  lay 
Where  feathery  cocoas  fringed  the  bay. 
The  dashing  of  his  brethren's  o.tr — 
The  conch-note  heard  along  the  shore  ; 
All     through     his    wakening     bosom 

swept — 
He   clasped   his   country's    tree,  and 

wept ! 

Oh !    scorn  him  not !     The  strength 

whereby 

The  patriot  girds  himself  to  die, 
The  unconquerable  power  which  fills 
The  freeman  battling  on  his  hills, 
These    have  one  fountain    deep    and 

clear — 

The  same  whence  gushed  that  child- 
like tear  1 


THE  CHILD'S  LAST  SLEEP. 

SUGGESTED   BY  A  MONUMENT  OF  CHANTREY'S. 

• 

THOU  sleepest— but  when  wilt  thou  wake,  fair  child  ? 
When  the  fawn  awakes  in  the  forest  wild  ? 
When  the  lark's  wing  mounts  with  the  breeze  of  mom? 
When  the  first  rich  breath  of  the  rose  is  born  ?— 
Lovely  thou  sleepest  !  yet  something  lies 
Too  deep  and  still  on  thy  soft-sealed  eyes  ; 
Mournful,  though  sweet,  is  thy  rest  to  see — 
When  will  the  hour  of  thy  rising  be  ? 

Not  when  the  fawn  wakes — not  when  the  lark 
On  the  crimson  cloud  of  the  morn  floats  dark. 
Grief  with  vain  passionate  tears  hath  we< 
The  hair,  shedding  gleams  from  thy  pale  brow  yet; 
Love,  with  sad  kisses  unfelt,  hath  pressed 
Thy  meek-dropt  eyeHds  and  quiet  breast ; 
And  tht  glad  Spring,  calling  out  bird  and  bee, 
Shall  color  all  blossoms,  fair  child  !  but  tliee. 


420  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Thou'rt  gone  from  us,  bright  one ! — that  thou  shouldst  die, 

And  life  be  left  to  the  butterfly  ! ' 

Thou'rt  gone  as  a  dewdrop  is  swept  from  the  bough « 

Oh  !  for  the  world  where  thy  home  is  now ! 

How  may  we  love  but  in  doubt  and  fear, 

How  may  we  anchor  our  fond  hearts  here ; 

How  should  e'en  joy  but  a  trembler  be, 

Beautiful  dust !  when  we  look  on  thee  ? 


THE  SUNBEAM. 

THOU  art  no  lingerer  in  monarch's  hall — 
A  joy  thou  art,  and  a  wealth  to  all  1 
A  bearer  of  hope  unto  land  and  sea — 
Sunbeam  !  what  gift  hath  the  world  like  thee  ? 

Thou  art  walking  the  billows,  and  ocean  smiles  ; 
Thou  hast  touched  with  glory  his  thousand  isles  ; 
Thou  hast  lit  up  the  ships  and  the  feathery  foam, 
And  gladdened  the  sailor  like  words  from  home. 

To  the  solemn  depths  of  the  forest-shades, 
Thou  art  streaming  on  through  their  green  arcades  ; 
And  the  quivering  leaves  that  have  caught  thy  glow 
Like  fire-flies  glance  to  the  pools  below. 

I  looked  on  the  mountains — a  vapor  lay 
Folding  their  heights  in  its  dark  array  : 
Thou  breakest  forth,  and  the  mist  became 
A  crown  and  a  mantle  of  living  flame. 

I  looked  on  the  peasant's  lowly  cot — 
Something  of  sadness  had  wrapt  the  spot ; 
But  a^leam  of  thee  on  its  lattice  fell, 
And  it  laughed  into  beauty  at  that  bright  spell. 

To  the  earth's  wild  places  a  guest  thou  art, 
Flushing  the  waste  like  the  rose's  heart ; 
And  thou  scornest  not  from  thy  pomp  to  shed 
A  tender  smile  on  the  ruin's  head. 

Thou  takest  through  the  dim  church-aisle  thy  way, 
And  its  pillars  from  twilight  flash  forth  to-day, 
And  its  high,  pale  tombs,  with  their  trophies  old, 
Are  bathed  in  a  flood  as  of  molten  gold. 

And  thou  turncst  not  from  the  humblest  grave. 
Where  a  flower  to  the  sighing  winds  may  wave  ; 
Thou  scatterest  its  gloom  like  the  dreams  of  rest, 
Thou  sleepest  in  love  on  its  grassy  breast. 


1 A  butterfly,  as  if  resting  on  a  flower,  is  sculptured  oo  the  monument. 


BREA  THINGS  OF  SPRING.  421 

Sunbeam  of  summer !  oh,  what  is  like  thee  ? 

Hope  of  the  wilderness,  joy  of  the  sea ! — 

One  thing  is  like  thee  to  mortals  given, 

The  faith  touching  all  things  with  hues  of  heaven  I 


BREATHINGS  OF  SPRING. 

Thou  givest  me  flowers,  thou  givest  me  songs  ;— bring  back 
The  love  that  I  have  lost !  " 

WHAT  wakest  thou,  Spring?    Sweet  voices  in  the  woods, 
And  reed-like  echoes,  that  have  long  been  mute  : 

Thou  bringest  back,  to  fill  the  solitudes, 

The  lark's  clear  pipe,  the  cuckoo's  viewless  flute, 

Whose  tone  seems  breathing  mournfulness  or  glee, 
E'en  as  our  hearts  may  be. 

And  the  leaves  greet  thee,  Spring! — the  joyous  leaves, 
Whose  tremblings  gladden  many  a  corpse  and  glade, 

Where  each  young  spray  a  rosy  flush  receives, 

When  thy  south  wind  hath  pierced  the  whispery  shade, 

And  happy  murmurs,  running  through  the  grass, 
Tell  that  thy  footsteps  pass. 

And  the  bright  waters — they  too  hear  thy  call, 

Spring,  the  awakener  !  thou  hast  burst  their  sleep! 

Amidst  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  their  fall 
Makes  melody,  and  in  the  forests  deep, 

Where  sudden  sparkles  and  blue  gleams  betray 
Their  windings  to  the  day. 

And  flowers — the  fairy  peopled  world  of  flowers  ! 

Thou  from  the  dust  hath  set  that  glory  free, 
Coloring  the  cowslip  with  the  sunny  hours, 

And  penciling  the  wood  anemone  : 
Silent  they  seem — yet  each  to  thoughtful  eye 
Glows  with  mute  poesy. 

But  what  awakest  thou  in  the  heart,  O  Spring! 

The  human  heart,  with  all  its  dreams  and  sighs  ? 
Thou  that  givest  back  so  many  a  buried  thing, 

Restorer  of  forgotten  harmonies ! 

Fresh  songs  and  scents  break  forth  where'er  thou  art— 
What  wakest  thou  in»the  heart  ? 

Too  much,  oh  I  there  too  mnch  !     We  know  not  well 
Wherefore  it  should  be  thus,  yet  roused  by  thee, 

What  fond,  strange  yearnings,  from  the  soul's  deep  cell, 
Gush  for  the  faces  we  no  more  may  see  I 

How  are  we  haunted,  in  the  wind's  low  tone, 
By  voices  that  are  gone ! 


422  MISCELLANEOUS. 


Looks  of  familiar  love,  that  never  more, 

Never  more  on  earth  our  aching  eyes  shall  meet. 
Past  words  of  welcome  to  our  household  door, 

And  vanished  smiles,  and  sounds  of  parted  feet- 
Spring  !  'midst  the  murmurs  of  thy  flowering  trees, 
Why,  why  revivest  thou  these  ? 

Vain  longings  for  the  dead  ! — why  come  they  back 
With  thy  young  birds,  and  leaves,  and  living  blooms? 

Oh  !  is  it  not,  that  from  thine  earthly  track 

Hope  to  thy  world  may  look  beyond  the  tombs  ? 

Yes,  gentle  Spring  !  no  sorrow  dims  thine  air, 
Breathed  by  our  loved  ones  there  ! 


THE  ILLUMINATED  CITY. 

THE  hills  all  glowed  with  a  festive  light, 

For  the  royal  city  rejoiced  by  night: 

There  were  lamps  hung  forth  upon  tower  and  tree, 

Banners  were  lifted  and  streaming  free  ; 

Every  tall  pillar  was  wreathed  with  fire ; 

Like  a  shooting  meteor  was  every  spire  ; 

And  the  outline  of  many  a  dome  on  high 

Was  traced,  as  in  stars,  on  the  clear  dark  sky. 

I  passed  through  the  street.     There  were  throngs  on  throngs- 
Like  sounds  of  the  deep  were  their  mingled  songs  ; 
There  was  music  forth  from  each  palace  borne — 
A  peal  of  the  cymbal,  the  harp,  and  horn  ; 
The  forests  heard  it,  the  mountains  rang, 
The  hamlets  woke  to  its  haughty  clang  ; 
Rich  and  victorious  was  every  tone, 
Telling  the  land  of  her  foes  o'erthrown. 

Didst  thou  meet  not  a  mourner  for  all  the  slain  ? 

Thousands  lie  dead  on  their  battle-plain  ! 

Gallant  and  true  were  the  hearts  that  fell — 

Grief  in  the  homes  they  left  must  dwell : 

Grief  o'er  the  aspect  of  childhood  spread, 

And  bowing  the  beauty  of  woman's  head ! 

Didst  thou  hear,  midst  the  songs,  not  one  tender  moan 

For  the  many  brave  to  their  slumbers  gone  ? 

I  saw  not  the  face  of  a  weeper  there — 

Too  strong,  perchance,  was  the  bright  lamp's  glare  ! 

I  heard  not  a  wail  midst  the  joyous  crowd — 

The  music  of  victory  was  all  too  loud  ! 

Mighty  it  ruled  on  the  winds  afar, 

Shaking  the  streets  like  a  conqueror's  car— 


THE  SPELLS  OF  HOME. 


Through  torches  and  streamers  its  flood  swept  by  t 
How  could  I  listen  for  moan  or  sigh  ? 

Turn  then  away  from  life's  pageants  —  turn, 

If  its  deep  story  thy  heart  would  learn  J 

Ever  too  bright  is  that  outward  show, 

Dazzling  the  eyes  till  they  see  not  woe. 

But  lift  the  proud  mantle  which  hides  from  thy  view 

The  things  thou  shouldst  gaze  on,  the  sad  and  true  ; 

Nor  fear  to  survey  what  its  folds  conceal  :  — 

So  must  thy  spirit  be  taught  to  feel  1 


THE  SPELLS  OF  HOME. 

*  There  blend  the  ties  that  strengthen 

Our  hearts  in  hours  of  grief, 
The  silver  links  that  lengthen 
Joy's  visits  when  most  brief." 

BERNARD  BARTON. 

BY  the  soft  green  light  in  the  woody  glade, 

On  the  banks  of  moss  where  thy  childhood  played, 

By  the  household  tree  through  which  thine  eye 

First  looked  in  love  to  the  summer  sky, 

By  the  dewy  gleam,  by  the  very  breath 

Of  the  primrose-tufts  in  the  grass  beneath, 

Upon  thy  heart  there  is  laid  a  spell, 

Holy  and  precious— oh,  guard  it  well ! 

By  the  sleepy  ripple  of  the  stream, 
Which  hath 'lulled  thee  into  many  a  dream, 
By  the  shiver  of  the  ivy  leaves 
To  the  wind  of  morn  at  thy  casement  eaves, 
By  the  bee's  deep  murmur  in  the  limes, 
By  the  music  of  the  Sabbath  chimes, 
By  every  sound  of  thy  native  shade, 
Stronger  and  dearer  the  spell  is  made. 

By  the  gathering  round  the  winter  hearth, 

When  twilight  called  unto  household  mirth, 

By  the  fairy  tale  or  the  legend  old 

In  that  ring  of  happy  faces  told, 

By  the  quiet  hour  when  hearts  unite 

In  the  parting  prayer  and  the  kind  "  Good-night! 

By  the  smiling  eye,  and  the  loving  tone, 

Over  thy  life  has  the  spell  been  thrown. 

And  bless  that  gift !— it  hath  gentle  might, 
A  guardian  power  and  a  guiding  light. 
It  hath  led  the  freeman  forth  to  stand 
In  the  mountain-battles  of  his  land ; 


424 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


It  hath  brought  the  wanderer  o'er  the  seas 
To  die  on  the  hills  of  his  own  fresh  breeze  ; 
And  back  to  the  gates  of  his  father's  hall 
It  hath  led  the  weeping  prodigal. 

Yes  !  when  thy  heart,  in  its  pride,  would  stray 
From  the  pure  first-loves  of  its  youth  away — 
When  the  sullying  breath  of  the  world  would  come 
O'er  the  flowers  it  brought  from  its  childhood's  home- 
Think  thou  again  of  the  woody  glade, 
And  the  sound  by  the  rustling  ivy  made — 
Think  of  the  tree  at  thy  father's  door, 
And  the  kindly  spell  shall  have  power  once  more  ! 


ROMAN  GIRL'S  SONG. 

"  Roma,  Roma,  Roma! 

Non  e  plu  come  era  prima." 


ROME,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been ! 
On  thy  seven  hills  of  yore 

Thou  satst  a  queen; 

Thou  hadst  thy  triumphs  then 

Purpling  the  street, 
Leaders  and  sceptred  men 

Bowed  at  thy  feet. 

They  that  thy  mantle  wore, 

As  gods  were  seen — 
Rome,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been ! 

Rome  !  thine  imperial  brow 

.Never  shall  rise : 
What  hast  thou  left  thee  now? — 

Thou  hast  thy  skies  ! 

£lue,  deeply  blue,  they  are, 

Gloriously  bright  1 
Veiling  thy  wastes  afar 

With  colored  light. 

Thou  hast  the  sunset's  glow, 

Rome  !  for  thy  dower, 
Flushing  tall  cypress-bough, 

Temple  and  tower  ! 


|  And  all  sweet  sounds  are  thine, 

Lovely  to  hear, 

While  night,  o'er  tomb  and  shrine 
Rests  darkly  clear. 

Many  a  solemn  hymn, 

By  starlight  sung, 
Sweeps  through  the  arches  dim, 

Thy  wrecks  among. 

Many  a  flute's  low  swell, 

On  thy  soft  air 
Lingers  and  loves  to  dwell 

With  summer  there. 

Thou  hast  the  south's  rich  gift 

Of  sudden  song — 
A  charmed  fountain,  swift, 

Joyous  and  strong. 

Thou  hast  fair  forms  that  move 

With  queenly  tread ; 
Thou  hast  proud  fanes  above 

Thy  mighty  dead. 

Yet  wears  thy  Tiber's  shore 

A  mournful  mien  : — 
Rome,  Rome!  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been ! 


THE  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


4*5 


THE  DISTANT  SHIP. 


THE  sea-bird's  wing  o'er  ocean's  breast 

Shoots  like  a  glancing  star, 
While  the  red  radiance  of  the  west 

Spreads  kindling  fast  and  far  ; 
And  yet  that  splendor  wins  thee  not  — 

Thy  still  and  thoughtful  eye 
Dwells    ut  on  one  dark  distant  spot 

Of  all  the  main  and  sky. 

Look  round  thee !    O'er  the  slumber- 
ing deep 

A  solemn  glory  broods  ; 
A  fire  hath  touched  the  beacon-steep, 

And  all  the  golden  woods  ; 
A  thousand  gorgeous  clouds  on  high 

Burn  with  the  amber  light ! — 
What  spell  from  that  rich  pageantry 

Chains  down  thy  gazing  sight  ? 


A  softening  thought  of  human  cares, 

A  feeling  linked  to  earth ! 
Is  not  yon  speck  a  bark  which  bear* 

The  loved  of  many  a  hearth  ? 
Oh  I  do  not  Hope,  and  Grief,  and  Fear, 

Crowd  her  frail  world  even  now, 
And  manhood's  prayer  and  woman's 
tear 

Follow  her  venturous  prow  ? 

Bright  are  the  floating  clouds  above, 

1  he  glittering  seas  below ; 
But  we  are  bound  by  cords  of  love 

To  kindred  weal  and  woe. 
Therefore,  amidst  this  wide  array 

Of  glorious  things  and  fair, 
My  soul  is  on  that  bark's  lone  way  - 

For  human  hearts  are  there. 


THE  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

BIRDS,  joyous  birds  of  the  wander  ng  wing  I 
Whence  is  it  ye  come  with  the  flowers  of  spring  ? 
"  We  come  from  the  shores  of  the  green  old  Nile, 
From  the  land  where  the  roses  of  Sharon  smile, 
From  the    alms  that  wave  through  the  Indian  sky, 
From  the  myrrh-trees  of  glowing  Araby. 

"  We  have  swept  o'er  cities  in  song  renowned — 

Silent  they  lie  with  the  deserts  round ! 

We  have  crossed  proud  rivers  whose  tide  hath  rolled 

All  dark  with  the  warrior-blood  of  old; 

And  each  worn  wing  hath  regained  its  home, 

Under  peasant's  roof-tree  or  monarch's  dome." 

And  what  have  ye  found  in  the  monarch's  dome, 
Since  last  ye  traversed  the  blue  sea's  foam  ? — 
"  We  have  found  a  change,  we  have  found  a  pall, 
And  a  gloom  o'ershadowing  the  banquet's  hall, 
>    And  a  mark  on  the  floor  as  of  life-drops  spilt — 
Naught  looks  the  same,  save  the  nest  we  built!  " 

O  joyous  birds !  it  hath  still  been  so ; 
Through  the  halls  of  kings  doth  the  tempest  go! 
But  the  huts  of  the  hamlet  lie  still  and  deep, 
And  the  hills  o'er  their  quiet  a  vigil  keep  : 
Say  what  have  ye  found  in  the  peasant's  cot 
Since  last  ye  paVted  from  that  sweet  spot  ? — 


426 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"A  change  we  have  found  there — and  many  a  change  1 

Faces  and  footsteps,  and  all  things  strange ! 

Gone  are  the  heads  of  the  silvery  hair, 

And  the  young  that  were  have  a  brow  of  care, 

And  the  place  is  hushed  where  the  children  played— 

Naught  looks  the  same,  save  the  nest  we  made  I  " 

Sad  is  your  tale  of  the  beautiful  earth, 
Birds  that  o'ersweep  it  in  power  and  mirth ! 
Yet  through  the  wastes  of  the  trackless  air 
Ye  have  a  guide,  and  shall  we  despair  ? 
Ye  over  desert  and  deep  have  passed — 
So  may  we  reach  our  bright  home  at  last  I 


THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 


THEY  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side. 
They  filled  one  home  with  glee  ; 

Their  graves  are  severed  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow  : 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight — 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 

One,  midst  the  forest  of  the  West, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid — 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar-shade. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one — 
He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep  ; 

He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 
O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 


One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are 
drest 

Above  the  noble  slain : 
He  wrapt  his  colors  round  his  breast 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one — o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fanned; 

She  faded  midst  Italian  flowers — 
The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  played 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree ; 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  prayed 

Around  one  parent  knee  ! 
They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 

And  cheered  with  song  the  hearth  !— 
Alas,  for  love  !  if  thou  wert  all, 

And  naught  beyond,  O  Earth  I 


MOZART'S  REQUIEM. 

{A  short  time  before  the  death  of  Mozart,  a-stranger  of  remarkable  appearance,  and  dressed  in 
deep  mourning,  called  at  his  house,  and  requested  him  to  prepare  a  requiem,  in  his  best  style, 
for  the  funeral  of  a  distinguished  person.  The  sensitive  imagination  of  the  composer  im- 
mediately seized  upon  the  circumstance  as  an  omen  of  his  own  fate  ;  and  the  sensitive  anxiety 
with  which  he  labored  to  fulfil  the  task,  had  the  effect  of  realizing  his  impression.  He  died 
within  a  few  days  after  composing  this  magnificent  piece  of  music,  which  was  performed  af 
his  interment.] 

"  These  birds  of  Paradise  but  long  to  flee 

Back  to  their  native  mansion." — Prophecy  of  Dante, 

A  REQUIEM  ! — and  for  whom  ? 
.For  beauty  in  its  bloom? 


MOZART'S  REQU/EM.  427 


For  valor  fallen — a  broken  rose  or  sword  ? 

A  dirge  for  king  or  chief, 

With  pomp  of  stately  grief, 
Banner,  and  torch,  and  waving  plume  deplored  ? 

Not  so — it  is  not  so ! 

The.  warning  voice  I  know, 
From  other  worlds  a  strange  mysterious  tone  } 

A  solemn  funeral  air 

It  called  me  to  prepare, 
And  my  heart  answered  secretly — my  own! 

One  more  then,  one  more  strain, 

In  links  of  joy  and  pain, 
Mighty  th:  troubled  spirit  to  enthrall  I 

And  let  me  breathe  my  dower          • 

Of  passion  and  of  power 
Full  into  that  deep  lay— the  last  of  all !  . 

The  last !— and  I  must  go 

From  this  bright  world  below, 
This  realm  of  sunshine,  ringing  with  sweet  sound! 

Must  leave  its  festal  skies, 

With  all  their  melodies, 
That  ever  in  my  breast  glad  echoes  found  1 

Yet  have  I  known  it  long : 

Too  restless  and  too  strong 
Within  this  clay  hath  been  the  o'ermastering  flam*  ; 

Swift  thoughts,  that  came  and  went, 

Like  torrents  o'er  me  sent, 
Have  shaken,  as  a  reed,  my  thrilling  frame. 

Like  perfumes  on  the  wind, 

Which  none  may  stay  or  bind, 
The  beautiful  comes  floating  through  my  soul ; 

I  strive  with  yearnings  vain 

The  spirit  to  detain 
Of  the  deep  harmonies  that  past  me  roll  1 

Therefore  disturbing  dreams 

Trouble  the  secret  streams 
And  founts  of  music  that  o'erflow  my  breast; 

Something  far  more  divine 

Than  may  on  earth  be  mine, 
Haunts  my  worn  heart,  and  will  not  let  me  rest 

Shall  I  then  fear  the  tone 

That  breathes  from  worlds  unknown  ?— 
Surely  these  feverish  aspirations  there 

Shall  grasp  their  full  desire, 

And  this  unsettled  fire 
Burn  calmly,  brightly,  in  immortal  air. 


428 


MTSCELLANEOUS. 


One  more  then,  one  more  strain  ; 

To  earthly  joy  and  pain 
A  rich,  and  deep,  and  passionate  farewell ! 

I  pour  each  fervent  thought, 

With  fear,  hope,  trembling,  fraught, 
Into  the  notes  that  o'er  my  dust  shall  swell. 


THE  IMAGE  IN  LAVA.1 

THOU  thing  of  years  .departed ! 

What  ages  have  gone  by 
Since  here  the  mournful  seal  was  set 

By  love  and  agony. ' 

Temple  and  tower  have  mouldered, 
Empires  from  earth  have  passed, 

And  woman's  heart  hath  left  a  trace 
Those  glories  to  outlast ! 

And  childhood's  fragile  image, 

Thus  fearfully  enshrined, 
Survives  the  proud  memorials  reared 

By  conquerors  of  mankind. 

Babe  !  wert  thou  brightly  slumbering 

Upon  thy  mother's  breast 
When  suddenly  the  fiery  tomb 

Shut  round  each  gentle  guest  ? 

A  strange,  dark  fate  o'ertook  you, 
Fair  babe  and  loving  heart! 

One  moment  of  a  thousand  pangs — 
Yet  better  than  to  part ! 

Haply  of  that  fond  bosom 

On  ashes  here  impressed, 
Thou  wert  the  only  treasure,  child  I 

Whereon  a  hope  might  rest. 

Perchance  all  vainly  lavished 

Its  other  love  had  been, 
And  where  it  trusted,  naught  remained 

But  thorns  on  which  to  lean. 

Far  better,  then,  to  perish, 
Thy  form  within  its  clasp, 


Than  live  and  lose  thee,  precious  one 
From  that  impassioned  grasp. 

Oh !  I  could  pass  all  relics 

Left  by  the  pomps  of  old, 
To  gaze  on  this  rude  monument 

Cast  in  affection's  mould. 

Love  !  human  love  1  what  art  thou? 

Thy  print  upon  the  dust 
Outlives  the  cities  of  renown 

Wherein  the  mighty  trust! 

Immortal,  oh !  immortal 

Thou  art,  whose  earthly  glow 

Hath  given  these  ashes  holiness- 
It  must,  it  must  be  so  ! 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

O  LOVELY  voices  of  the  sky, 

That  hymned  the  Saviour's  birth  1 
Are  ye  not  singing  still  on  high, 
Ye  that  sang  "  Peace  on  earth  ?  " 
To  us  yet  speak  the  strains 

Wherewith,  in  days  gone  by, 
Ye  blessed  the  Syrian  swains, 
O  voices  of  the  sky  ! 

O  clear  and  shining  light!  whose  beams 

That  hour  heaven's  glory  shed 
Around  the  palms,  and  o'er  the  streams, 
And  on  the  shepherd's  head ; 

Be  near,  through  life  and  death, 

As  in  that  holiest  night 
Of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Faith, 
O  clear  and  shining  light ! 


1  The  impression  of  a  woman's  form,  with  an  infant  clasped  to  the  bosom,  found  at  the  unr 
covering  of  Hcrculaneum. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BROTHERS. 


429 


O  star!  which  led  to  Him  whose  love 

Brought  down  man's  ransom  free ; 
Where    art    thou  ? — 'Midst   the   hosts 

above 
May  we  still  gaze  on  thee  ? 

In  heaven  thou  art  not  set, 

Thy  rays  earth  might  not  dim, 
Send  them  to  guide  us  yet, 
O  star  which  led  to  Him  ! 


A  FATHER   READING  THE 
BIBLE.1 

TWAS  early  d?y,  and  sunlight  streamed 

Soft  through  a  quiet  room, 
That  hushed,  but  not  forsaken  seemed, 

Still,  but  *ith  naught  of  gloom. 
For  there,  serene  in  happy  age 

Whose  hope  is  from  above, 
A  father  communed  with  the  page 

Of  heaven's  recorded  love. 

Pure  fell  \he  beam,  and  meekly  bright, 

On  hi?,  gray  holy  hair, 
And  touched  the  page  with  tenderest 
light, 

As  if  its  shrine  were  there  1 
But  oh  !  that  patriarch's  aspect  shone 

With  something  lovelier  far — 
A  radiance  all  the  spirit's  own, 

Caught  not  from  sun  or  star. 

Some  word  of  life  e'en  then  had  met 

His  calm,  benignant  eye  ; 
Some  ancient  promise,  breathing  yet 

Of  immortality ! 


Some    martyr's    prayer,   wherein    the 
glow 

Of  quenchless  faith  survives  : 
While  every  feature  said — "  /  knmo 

That  my  Redeemer  lives  !  " 

And  silent  stood  his  children  by, 

Hushing  their  very  breath, 
Before  the  solemn  sanctity 

Of  thoughts  o'ersweeping  death. 
Silent — yet  did  not  each  young  breast 

With  love  and  reverence  melt  ? 
O  !  blest  be  those  fair  girls,  and  blest 

Tkat  home  where,god  is  felt  1 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE 
BROTHERS.2 

"  His  early  days 

Were  with  him  in  his  heart.** 

WORDSWOHTH. 

THE  voices  of  two  forest  boys, 

In  years  when  hearts  entwine, 
Had    filled    with    childhood's    merry 

noise 

A  valley  of  the  Rhine : 
To  rock  and  stream  that  sound  was 

known, 
Gladsome  as  hunter's  bugle-tone. 

The  sunny  laughter  of  their  eyes, 
There  had  each  vineyard  seen  ; 

Up  every  cliff  whence  eagles  rise, 
Their  bounding  step  had  been: 

Ay !.  their  bright  youth  a  glory  threw 

O  er  the  wild  place  wherein  they  grew. 


1  This  Hula  poem,  which,  as  its  Author  herself  expressed  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Joanna  Riillie, 
was  to  her  "  a  thing  set  apart,"  as  being  the  last  of  her  productions  ever  read  to  her  beloved 
mother,  was  written  at  the  request  of  a  young  lady,  who  thus  made  known  her  wish  "  that  Mrs. 
Henians  would  embody  in  poetry  a  picture  that  so  wanned  a  daughter's  heart :  " — 

"  Upon  going  into  our  dear  father's  sitting-room  this  morning,  my  sister  and  I  found  him 
deeply  encaged  reading  his  Bible,  and,  being  unwilling  to  interrupt  such  a  holy  occupation,  we 
retired  to  the  further  end  of  the  apartment,  to  gaze  unobserved  upon  the  serene  picture.  The 
bright  morning  sun  was  beaming  on  his  venerable  silver  hair,  while  his  defective  sight  increased 
the  earnestness  with  which  he  perused  the  blessed  book.  Our  fancy  led  us  to  believe  that  some 
immortal  thought  was  engaging  his  mind,  for  he  raised  his  fine  open  brow  to  the  light,  and  wo 
felt  we  had  never  loved  him  more  deeply.  After  an  involuntary  prayer  had  passed  from  our 
hearts,  we  whispered  to  each  other,  '  Oh !  if  Mrs.  Hemans  could  only  see  our  father  at  this 
moment,  her  glowing  pen  would  detain  the  scene  ;  for  even  as  we  gaze  upoc  it,  the  bright  gleam 
is  vanishing.' 

"  December  9,  1826." 

*  For  the  tale  on  which  this  little  poem  is  founded,  see  LSHtrmiU  t*  lt*ttt. 


43° 


MISCELLA  NEOUS. 


But    this,   as   day-spring's  flush,  was 

brief 

As  early  bloom  or  dew; 
Alas  !  'tis  but  the  withered  leaf 
That  wears  the  enduring  hue  1 
Those   rocks   along  the    Rhine's  fair 

shore 
Might  girdle  in  their  world  no  more. 

For   now   on    manhood's   verge    they 
stood, 

And  heard  life's  thrilling  call, 
As  if  a  silver  clarion  wooed 

To  some  high  festival ; 
AIR!  parted  as  young  brothers  part, 
With  love  in  each  unsullied  heart. 

They  parted.     Soon  the  paths  divide 
Wherein  our  steps  wer?  one, 

Like  river-branches,  far  and  wide, 
Dissevering  as  they  run ; 

And  making  strangers  in  their  course, 

Of   waves  that   had   the   same  bright 
source. 

Met  they  no  more  ?     Once  more  they 

met. 

Those  kindred  hearts  and  true  ! 
'Twas  on  a  field  of  death,  where  yet 

The  battle-thunders  flew, 
Though  the  fierce  day   was  wellnigh 

past, 
And  the  red  sunset  smiled  its  last. 

But  as  the  combat  closed,  they  found 
For  tender  thoughts  a  space, 


And  e'en  upon  that  bloody  ground 

Room  for  one  bright  embrace, 
And  poured  forth  on  each  other's  neck 
Such  tears  as  warriors  need  not  check. 

The    mists    o'er    boyhood's    memory 
spread 

All  melted  with  those  tears, 
The  faces  of  the  holy  dead 

Rose  as  in  vanished  years  ; 
The  Rhine,  the  Rhine,  the  ever-blest, 
Lifted  its  voice  in  each  full  breast  J 

Oh  !  was  it  then  ?  time  to  die  ? 

It  was ! — that  not  in  vain 
The  soul  of  childhood's  purity 

And  peace  might  turn  again. 
A  ball  swept  forth — 'twas  guided  \vell-~ 
Heart  unto  heart  those  brothers  fell ! 

Happy,  yes,  happy  thus  to  gol 

Bearing  from  earth  away 
Affections,  gifted  ne'er  to  know 

A  shadow — a  decay — 
A  passing  touch  of  change  or  chill, 
A  breath  of  aught  whose  breath   can 
kill. 

And    they,    between    whose    severed 

souls, 

Once  in  close  union  tied, 
A  gulf  is  set,  a  current  rolls 

Forever  to  divide ; 
Well  may  they  envy  such  a  lot, 
Whose  hearts  yearn  on — but  mingle 
not 


THE  LAST  WISH. 

"  Well  may  1  weep  to  leave  this  world— thee— all  these  beautiiul  woods,  and  plains,  aud 
tills." — Lights  and  Shadows. 

Go  to  the  forest  shade 

Seek  thou  the  well-known  glade, 
There,  heavy  with  sweet  dew,  the  violets  lie, 

Gleaming  through  moss-tufts  deep, 

Like  dark  eyes,  rilled  with  sleep, 
And  bathed  in  hues  of  summer's  midnight  sky. 

Bring  me  their  buds,  to  shed 
Around  my  dying  bed 


THE  LAST  WISH.  431 


A  breath  of  May  and  of  the  wood's  repose ; 

For  I,  in  sooth,  depart 

With  a  reluctant  heart, 
That  fain  would  linger  where  the  bright  sun  glow*. 

Fain  would  I  stay  with  thee  I—- 
Alas !  this  may  not  be ; 

Yet  bring  me  still  the  gifts  of  happier  hours  1 
Go  where  the  fountain's  breast 
Catches,  in  glassy  rest, 

The  dim  green  light  that  pours  through  laurel  bowers. 

I  know  how  softly  bright, 

Steeped  in  that  tender  light, 
The  water-lilies  tremble  there  e'en  now  ; 

Go  to  the  pure  stream's  edge, 

And  from  its  whispering  sedge 
Bring  me  those  flowers  to  cool  my  fevered  brow ! 

Then,  as  in  Hope's  young  days, 

Track  thou  the  antique  maze 
Of  the  rich  garden  to  its  grassy  mound ; 

There  is  a  lone  white  rose, 

Shedding,  in  sudden  snows, 
Its  faint  leaves  o'er  the  emerald  turf  around. 

Well  knowest  thou  that  fair  tree — 

A  murmur  of  the  bee 
Dwells  ever  in  the  honeyed  lime  above  : 

Bring  me  one  pearly  flower 

Of  all  its  clustering  shower — 
For  on  that  spot  we  first  revealed  our  love. 

Gather  one  woodbine  bough, 

Then,  from  the  lattice  low 
Of  the  bowered  cottage  which  I  bade  thee  mark, 

When  by  the  hamlet  last 

Through  dim  wood-lanes  we  passed, 
While  dews  were  glancing  to  the  glow-worm's  spark. 

Haste  !  to  my  pillow  bear 
Those  fragrant  things  and  fair ; 

My  hand  no  more  may  bind  them  up  at  eve- 
Yet  shall  their  odor  soft 
One  bright  dream  round  me  waft 

Of  life,  youthi  summer — all  that  I  must  leave ! 

And  oh !  if  thou  wouldst  ask 

Wherefore  thy  steps  I  task, 
The  grove,  the  stream,  the  hamlet  vale  to  trace— 

'Tis  that  some  thought  of  me, 

When  I  am  gone,  may  be 
The  spirit  bound  to  each  familiar  place. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  bid  mine  image  dwell 

(Oh  !  break  not  thou  the  spell  !) 

In  the  deep  wood  and  by  the  fountain-side; 
Thou  must  not,  my  beloved  1 
Rove  where  we  two  have  roved, 

Forgetting  her  that  in  her  spring-time  died  I 


FAIRY  FAVORS. 


Give  me  but 


Something  whereunto  I  may  bind  my  heart ; 
Something  to  love,  to  rest  upon,  to  clasp 
Affections  tendrils  round. 

WOULDST  thou  wear  the  gift  of  immortal  bloom  ? 
Wouldst  thou  smile  in  scorn  at  the  shadowy  tomb  ? 
Drink  of  this  cup  !  it  is  richly  fraught 
With  balm  from  the  gardens  of  Genii  brought; 
Drink !  and  the  spoiler  shall  pass  thee  by, 
When  the  young  all  scattered  like  rose-leaves  lie. 

And  would  not  the  youth  of  my  soul  be  gone, 
If  the  loved  had  left  me,  one  by  one  ? 
Take  back  the  cup  that  may  never  bless, 
The  gift  that  would  make  me  brotherless. 
How  should  I  live,  with  no  kindred  eye 
To  reflect  mine  immortality  ! 

Wouldst  thou  have  empire,  by  sign  or  spell, 
Over  the  mighty  in  air  that  dwell  ? 
Wouldst  thou  call  the  spirits  of  shore  and  steep 
To  fetch  thee  jewels  from  ocean's  deep  ? 
Wave  but  this  rod,  and  a  viewless  band, 
Slaves  to  thy  will,  shall  around  thee  stand. 

And  would  not  fear,  at  my  coming,  then 
Hush  every  voice  in  the  homes  of  men  ? 
Would  not  bright  eyes  in  my  presence  quail  ? 
Young  cheeks  with  a  name  ess  thrill  turn  pale  ? 
No  gift  be  mine  that  aside  would  turn 
The  human  love  for  whose  founts  I  yearn. 

Wouldst  thou  then  read  through  the  hearts  of  those 
Upon  whose  faith  thou  hast  sought  repose  ? 
Wear  this  rich  gem  !  it  is  charmed  to  show 
When  a  change  comes  over  affection's  glow : 
Look  on  its  flushing  or  fading  hue, 
And  learn  if  the  trusted  be  false  or  true  I 

Keep,  keep  the  gem,  that  I  still  may  trust, 
Though  my  heart's  wealth  be  but  poured  on  dust  I 


77/A  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  433 

Let  not  a  doubt  in  my  soul  have  place, 
To  dim  the  light  of  a  loved  one's  face ; 
Leave  to  the  earth  its  warm  sunny  smile — 
That  glory  would  pass  could  I  look  on  guile  I 

Say,  then,  what  boon  of  my  power  shall  be, 
Favored  of  spirits!  poured  forth  on  thee  ? 
Thou  scornest  the  treasures  of  wave  and  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  drink  of  the  cup  divine, 
Thou  art  fain  with  a  mortal's  lot  to  rest — 
Answer  me  !  how  may  I  grace  it  best? 

Oh  !  give  me  no  sway  o'er  the  powers  unseen, 

But  a  human  heart  where  my  own  may  lean! 

A  friend,  one  tender  and  faithful  friend, 

Whose  thoughts'  free  current  with  mine  may  blend 

And,  leaving  not  either  on  earth  alone, 

Bid  the  bright,  calm  close  of  our  lives  be  one  ! 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 
A  DRAMATIC  POEM. 


Judicio  ha  dado  esta  no  vista  hazanna 
Del  valor  que  en  los  siplos  venideros 
Tendran  los  Hijos  de  la  fuerte  Espana, 
Hijos  de  tal  padres  herederos. 

Hallo  sola  en  Numancia  todo  quanto 

Debe  con  juslo  titulo  cantarse, 

Y  lo  quc  puede  dar  materia  al  canto. 

Numancia  d*  CervaitUt. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

THE  history  of  Spain  records  two  instances  of  the  severe  and  self-devoting  heroism  which  forme 
the  subject  of  the  following  dramatic  poem.  The  first  of  these  occurred  at  the  siege  of  Tanfa, 
which  was  defended,  in  1294,  for  Sancho,  King  of  Castile,  during  the  rebellion  of  his  brother, 
Don  Juan,  by  Guzman,  surnamed  the  Good.*  The  second  is  related  of  Aionso  Lopez  de 
Texeda,  who,  until  his  garrison  had  been  utterly  disabled  by  pestilence,  maintained  the  rny 
of  Zamora  for  the  children  of  Don  Pedro  the  Cruel,  against  the  forces  of  Henrique  of 
Trastamara.1 

Impressive  as  were  the  circumstances  which  distinguished  both  these  memorable  sieges,  it 
appeared  to  the  author  of  the  following  pages  that  a  deeper  interest,  as  well  as  a  stronger  color 

1  See  Ouintana's  Vidas  de  Espanoltt  CtKbrti,  p.  $3. 
*  See  the  preface  to  Southey's  CkranUU  u/tkt  Cid, 


434  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

of  nationality,  might  be  imparted  to  the  scenes  in  which  she  has  feebly  attempted  "to  describe 
high  passions  and  high  actions,"  by  connecting  a  religious  feeling  with  the  patriotism  and  high- 
minded  loyalty  which  had  thus  been  proved,  "  faithful  unto  death,"  and  by  surrounding  her 
ideal  dramatis  persona  with  recollections  derived  from  the  heroic  legends  of  Spanish  chivalry 
She  has,  for  this  reason,  employed  the  agency  of  imaginary  characters,  and  fixed  upon  Valencia 
del  Cid  as  the  scene  to  give  them 

"  A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

ALVAR  GONZALEZ,  Governor  of  Valencia. 

ALPHONSO,  CARLOS,  His  Sons. 

HERNANDEZ,  A  Priest. 

ABDULLAH,  A  Moorish  Prince,  Chief  of  the  Army 

besieging  Valencia. 
'  GAKCIAS,  A  Spanish  Knight. 

EI.MINA,  Wife  to  Gonzalez. 

XIMENA,  Her  Daughter. 

THERESA,  An  A ttendant. 

Citizens,  Soldiers,  Attendants,  &*c. 

SCENE  I. 

Room  in  a  Palace  of  Valencia. — XIMENA  tinging  to  a  Lute. 
BALLAD. 

"  THOU  hast  not  been  with  a  festal  throng 

At  the  pouring  of  the  wine  ; 
Men  bear  not  from  the  hall  of  song 
A  mien  so  dark  as  thine ! 

There's  blood  upon  thy  shield, 
There's  dust  upon  thy  plume, 
Thou  hast  brought  from  some  disastrous  field 
That  brow  of  wrath  and  gloom  ! " 

44  And  is  there  blood  upon  my  shield  ? 

Maiden,  it  well  may  be ! 

We  have  sent  the  streams,  from  our  battle-field. 
All  darkened  to  the  sea ! 

We  have  given  the  founts  a  stain, 
'Midst  their  woods  of  ancient  pine ; 
And  the  ground  is  wet — but  not  with  rain, 
Deep  dyed — but  not  with  wine  I " 

"  The  ground  is  wet — but  not  with  rain— 

We  have  been  in  war  array, 
And  the  noblest  blood  of  Christian  Spain 
Hath  bathed  her  soil  to-day. 
I  have  seen  the  strong  man  die, 
And  the  stripling  meet  his  fate, 
Where  the  mountain-winds  go  sounding  by, 
In  the  Roncesvalles*  Strait. " 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA  435 


"  In  the  gloomy  Roncesvalles'  Strait 
There  are  helms  and  lances  cleft ; 
And  they  that  moved  at  morn  elate 
On  a  bed  of  heath  are  left ! 

There's  many  a  fair  young  face 
Which  the  war-steed  hath  gone  o'er  ; 
At  many  a  board  there  is  kept  a  place 
For  those  that  come  no  more  ! " 

"  Alas  !  for  love,  for  woman's  breast, 

If  woe  like  this  must  be ! 
Hast  thou  seen  a  youth  with  an  eagle  crest, 
And  a  white  plume  waving  free  ? 
With  his  proud  quick-flashing  eye, 
And  his  mien  of  knightly  state  ? 
Doth  he  come  from  where  the  swords  flashed  high, 
In  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait  ?" 

"In  the  gloomy  Roncesvalles'  Strait 

I  saw,  and  marked  him  well ; 
For  nobly  on  his  steed  he  sate, 
When  the  pride  of  manhood  fell ! 
But  it  is  nolyont/i  which  turns 
From  the  field  of  spears  again  ; 
For  the  boy's  high  heart  too  wildly  burns, 
Till  it  rests  amidst  the  slain  I  " 

"  Thou  canst  not  say  that  he  lies  low, 

The  lovely  and  the  brave  ? 
Oh  !  none  could  look  on  his  joyous  brow, 
And  think  upon  the  grave  1 
Dark,  dark  perchance  the  day, 
Hath  been  with  valor's  fate  ; 
But  he  is  on  his  homeward  way, 

From  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait  1 " 

"  There  is  dust  upon  his  joyous  brow, 

And  o'er  his  graceful  head  ; 
And  the  war-horse  will  not  wake  him  now, 
Though  it  browse  his  greensward  bed ! 
I  have  seen  the  stripling  die, 
And  the  strong  man  meet  his  fate, 
Where  the  mountain  winds  go  sounding  by, 
In  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait !  " 

(ELMINA  enters.) 

Elm.  Your  songs  are  not  as  those  of  other  days, 
Mine  own  Ximcna!     Where  is  now  the  young 
And  buoyant  spirit  of  the  morn,  which  once 
Breathed  in  your  spring-like  melodies,  and  woke 
Joy's  echo  from  all  hearts  ? 


436  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCTA. 

Xim.  My  mother,  this 

Is  not  the  free  air  of  our  mountain-wilds ; 
And  these  are  not  the  halls  wherein  my  voice 
First  poured  those  gladdening  strains. 

Elm.  Alas  !  thy  heart 

(I  see  it  well)  doth  sicken  for  the  pure 
Free-wandering  breezes  of  the  joyous  hills, 
Where  thy  young  brothers,  o'er  the  rock  and  heath, 
Bound  in  glad  boyhood,  e'en  as  torrent  streams 
Leap  brightly  from  the  heights.     Had  we  not  been 
Within  these  walls,  thus  suddenly  begirt, 
Thou  shouldst  have  tracked  ere  now,  with  step  as  light, 
Their  wild  wood-paths. 

Xim.  I  would  not  but  have  shared 

These  hours  of  woe  and  peril,  though  the  deep 
And  solemn  feelings  wakening  at  their  voice, 
Claim  all  the  wrought-up  spirit  to  themselves, 
And  will  not  blend  with  mirth.     The  storm  doth  hush 
All  floating  whispery  sounds,  all  bird-notes  wild 
O'  the  summer  forest,  filling  earth  and  heaven 
With  its  own  awful  music.     And  'tis  well ! 
Should  not  a  hero's  child  be  trained  to  hear 
The  trumpet's  blast  unstartled,  and  to  look 
In  the  fixed  face  of  death  without  dismay  ? 

Elm.  Woe  !  woe  !  that  aught  so  gentle  and  so  young 
Should  thus  be  called  to  stand  i'  the  tempest's  path, 
And  bear  the  token  and  the  hue  of  death 
On  a  bright  soul  so  soon  !     I  had  not  shrunk 
From  mine  own  lot ;  but  thod,  my  child,  shouldst  move 
.   As  a  light  breeze  of  heaven,  through  summer-bowers, 
And  not  o'er  foaming  billows.     We  are  fallen 
On  dark  and  evil  days  ! 

Xim.  Ay,  days  that  wake 

All  to  their  tasks  ! — Youth  may  not  loiter  now 
In  the  green  walks  of  spring  ;  and  womanhood 
Is  summoned  unto  conflicts,  heretofore 
The  lot  of  warrior  souls.     Strength  is  born 
In  the  deep  silence  of  long-suffering  hearts : 
Not  amidst  joy. 

Elm.  Hast  thou  some  secret  woe 

That  thus  thou  speakst  ? 

Xim.  What  sorrow  should  be  mine, 

Unknown  to  thee  ? 

Elm.  Alas !  the  baleful  air 

Wherewith  the  pestilence  in  darkness  walks 
Through  the  devoted  city,  like  a  blight 
Amidst  the  rose-tints  of  thy  cheek  hath  fallen, 
And  wrought  an  early  withering ! — Thou  hast  crossed 
The  paths  of  death,  and  ministered  to  those 
O'er  whom  his  shadow  rested,  till  thine  eye 
Hath  changed  its  glancing  sunbeam  for  a  still, 
Deep,  solemn  radiance,  and  thy  brow  hath  caught 


THE  SIEGE  Of  VALENCIA.  437 

A  wild  and  high  expression,  which  at  times 

Fades  into  desolate  calmness,  most  unlike 

What  youth's  bright  mien  should  wear.     My  gentle  child  ! 

I  look  on  thce  in  fear  ! 

Xim.  Thou  hast  no  cause 

To  fear  for  me.     When  the  wild  clash  of  steel, 
And  the  deep  tambour,  and  the  heavy  step 
Of  armed  men  break  on  our  morning  dreams  ! 
When,  hour  by  hour,  the  noble  and  the  brave 
Are'  falling  round  us,  and  we  deem  it  much 
To  give  them  funeral-rites,  and  call  them  blest 
If  the  good  sword,  in  its  own  stormy  hour, 
Hath  done  its  work  upon  them,  ere  disease 
Hath  chilled  their  fiery  blood  ; — it  is  no  time 
For  the  light  mien  wherewith,  in  happier  hours, 
We  trod  the  woodland  mazes,  when  young  leaves 
Were  whispering  in  the  gale. — My  father  comes — 
Oh  !  speak  of  me  no  more.     I  would  not  shade 
His  princely  aspect  with  a  thought  less  high 
Than  his  proud  duties  claim. 

(GONZALEZ  enters.) 

Elm.  My  noble  lord  t 

Welcome  from  this  day's  toil ! — It  is  the  hour 
Whose  shadows,  as  they  deepen,  bring  repose 
Unto  all  weary  men;  and  wilt  not  thou 
Free  thy  mailed  bosom  from  the  corslet's  weight. 
To  rest  at  fall  of  eve  ? 

Con.  There  may  be  rest 

For  the  tired  peasant,  when  the  vesper-bell 
Doth  send  him  to  his  cabin,  and  beneath 
His  vine  and  olive  he  may  sit  at  eve,     • 
Watching  his  children's  sport :  but  unto  him 
Who  keeps  the  watch-])! ace  on  the  mountain-height, 
When  heaven  lets  loose  the  storms  that  chasten  realms 
— \Vho  speaks  of  rest  ? 

Xim.  My  father,  shall  I  fill 

The  wine-cup  for  thy  lips,  or  bring  the  lute 
Whose  sounds  thou  lovest  ? 

Gon.  If  there  be  strains  of  power 

To  rouse  a  spirit,  which  in  triumphant  scorn 
May  cast  off  nature's  feebleness,  and  hold 
Its 'proud  career  unshackled,  dashing  clown 
Tears  and  fond  thoughts  to  earth ;  give  voice  to  those  ! 
I  have  need  of  such,  Xiniena  ! — we  must  hear 
No  melting  music  nowl 

Xim.  I  know  all  high 

Heroic  ditties  of  the  elder  time, 
Sung  by  the  mountain-Christians,  in  the  holds 
Of  the  everlasting  hills,  whose  snows  yet  bear- 
The  print  of  Freedom's  step  ;  and  all  wild  strains 


THE  SIEGE  Of 


Wherein  the  dark  serranoj  *  teach  the  rocks, 
And  the  pine-forests,  deeply  to  resound 
The  praise  of  later  champions.     Wouldst  them  hear 
The  war-song  of  thine  ancestor,  the  Cid  ? 

Gon.  Ay,  speak  of  him  ;  for  in  that  name  is  power, 
Such  as  might  rescue  kingdoms  !     Speak  of  him  ! 
We  are  his  children  !     They  that  can  look  back 
I*  the  annals  of  their  house  on  such  a  name, 
How  should  they  take  dishonor  by  the  hand, 
And  o'er  the  threshold  of  their  father's  halls 
First  lead  her  as  a  guest  ?  • 

Elm.  Oh,  why  is  this  ? 

How  my  heart  sinks  ! 

Gon.  It  must  not  fail  theejv/, 

Daughters  of  heroes  !  —  thine  inheritance 
Is  strength  to  meet  all  conflicts.     Thou  canst  number 
In  thy  long  line  of  glorious  ancestry 
Men,  the  bright  offering  of  whose  blood  hath  made 
The  ground  it  bathed  e'en  as  an  altar,  whence 
High  thoughts  shall  rise  forever.     Bore  they  not, 
'Midst  flame  and  sword,  their  witness  of  the  Cross, 
With  its  victorious  inspiration  girt 
As  with  a  conqueror's  robe,  till  the  infidel, 
O'erawed,  shrank  back  before  them  ?  —  Ay,  the  earth 
Doth  call  them  martyrs,  but  their  agonies 
Were  of  a  moment,  tortures  whose  brief  aim 
Was  to  destroy,  within  whose  powers  and  scope 
Lay  naught  but  dust.  —  And  earth  doth  call  them  martyrs! 
Why,  Heaven  but  claimed  their  blood,  their  lives,  and  not 
The  things  which  grow  as  tendrils  round  their  hearts  ; 
No,  not  their  children  ! 

Elm.  Mean'st  thou  ?  —  knowst  thou  aught  ?- 

I  cannot  utter  it  —  My  sons  !  my  sons  ! 
Is  it  of  them  ?  —  Oh  !  wouldst  thou  speak  of  them  ? 

Gon.  A  mother's  heart  divineth  but  too  well  ! 

Elm.  Speak,  I  adjure  thee  !  —  I  can  bear  it  all.— 
Where  are  my  children  ? 

Gon.  In  the  Moorish  camp 

Whose  lines  have  girt  the  city. 

Xim.  But  they  live  ? 

—  All  is  not  lost,  my  mother  ! 

Elm.  Say  they  live. 

Gon.  Elmina,  still  they  live. 

Elm.  But  captives  !  —  They 

Whom  my  fond  heart  had  imaged  to  itself 
Bounding  from  cliff  to  cliff  amidst  the  wilds 
Where  the  rock-eagle  seemed  not  more  secure 
In  its  rejoicing  freedom  !  —  And  my  boys 
Are  captives  with  the  Moor  !  —  Oh  !  how  was  this? 

Gon.  Alas!  our  brave  Alphonso,  in  the  pride 
Of  boyish  daring,  left  our  mountain-halls, 


1  Serranos — mountaineers. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  439 

With  his  young  brother,  eager  to  behold 
The  face  of  noble  war.     Thence  on  their  way 
Were  the  rash  wanderers  captured. 

Elm.  Tis  enough. 

— And  when  shall  they  be  ransomed  ? 

Gon.  There  is  asked 

A  ransom  far  too  high. 

Elm.  What !  have  we  wealth 

Which  might  redeem  a  monarch,  and  our  sons 
The  while. wear  fetters  ? — Take  thou  all  for  them, 
And  we  will  cast  our  worthless  grandeur  from  us, 
As  'twere  a  cumbrous  robe ! — Why,  thou  art  one, 
To  whose  high  nature  pomp  hath  ever  been 
But  as  the  plumage  of  a  warrior's  helm, 
Worn  or  thrown  off  as  lightly.     And  for  me, 
Thou  knowest  not  how  serenely  I  could  take 
The  peasant's  lot  upon  me,  so  my  heart, 
Amidst  it  deep  affections  undisturbed, 
May  dwell  in  silence. 

Xim.  Father,  doubt  thou  not 

But  we  will  bind  ourselves  to  poverty, 
With  glad  devotedness,  if  this,  but  this, 
May  win  them  back. — Distrust  us  not,  my  father ! 
We  can  bear  all  things. 

Gon.  Can  ye  bear  disgrace  ? 

Xim.  We  were  not  born  for  this. 

Gon.  No,  thou  sayest  well  I 

Hold  to  that  lofty  faith, — My  wife,  my  child  ! 
Hath  earth  no  treasures  richer  than  the  gems 
Torn  from  her  secret  caverns  ? — If  by  them 
Chains  may  be  riven,  then  let  the  captive  spring 
Rejoicing  to  the  light ! — But  he,  for  whom 
Freedom  and  life  may  but  be  worn  with  shame, 
Hath  naught  to  do,  save  fearlessly  to  fix 
His  steadfast  look  on  the  majestic  heavens, 
And  proudly  die  ! 

Elm.  Gonzalez,  -who  must  die  ? 

Gon.  (hurrit <ily).  They  on  whose  lives  a  tearful  price  is  set, 
But  to  be  paid  by  treason  ! — Is't  enough  ? 
Or  must  I  yet  seek  words  ? 

Elm.  That  look  saith  more  I — 

Thou  canst  not  mean 

Gon.  I  do  ! — why  dwells  there  not 
Power  in  a  glance  to  speak  it  ?— They  must  diel 
They— must  their  names  be  told— Our  sons  must  die 
Unless  I  yield  the  city  ! 

Xim.    '  Oh!  lookup! 

My  mother,  sink  not  thus !— Until  the  grave 
Shut  from  our  sight  its  victims,  there  is  hope. 

Elm.  (in  a  low  voice'].  Whose  knell  was  in  the  breeze? — 

N-\  no,  not  theirs! 
Whose  wast  the  blessed  voice  that  spoke  of  hope  ? 


44°  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

— And  there  is  hope ! — I  will  not  be  subdued — 
I  will  not  hear  a  whisper  of  despair  I 
For  nature  is  all-powerful,  and  her  breath 
Moves  like  a  quickening  spirit  o'er  the  depths 
Within  a  father's  heart. — Thou  too,  Gonzalez, 
Wilt  tell  me  there  is  hope  ! 

Gon.  (solemnly).  Hope  but  in  Him 

Who  bade  the  patriarch  lay  his  fair  young  son 
Bound  on  the  shrine  of  sacrifice,  and  when 
The  bright  steel  quivered  in  the  father's  hand. 
Just  raised  to  strike,  sent  forth  His  awful  voice 
Through  the  stiil  clouds,  and  on  the  breathless  air. 
Commanding  to  withhold! — Earth  has  no  hope  : 
It  rests  with  Him. 

Elm.  TTiou  canst  not  tell  me  this  ! 

Thou  father  of  my  sons,  within  whose  hands 
Doth  lie  thy  children's  fate. 

Gon.  If  there  have  been 

Men  in  whose  bosoms  nature's  voice  hath  made 
Its  accents  as  the  solitary  sound 
Of  an  o'erpowving  torrent,  silencing 
The  austere  aitti  yet  divine  remonstrances 
Whispered  by  faith  and  honor,  lift  thy  hands ; 
And  to  that  heaven  which  arms  the  brave  with  strength 
Pray,  that  the  father  of  thy  sons  may  ne'er 
Be  thus  found  wanting  ! 

Elm.  Then  their  doom  is  sealed  I—- 

Thou wilt  not  save  my  children  ? 

Gon.  Hast  thou  cause, 

Wife  of  my  youth !  to  deem  it  lies  within 
The  bounds  of  possible  things,  that  I  should  link 
My  name  to  that  word — traitor  ?    They  that  sleep 
On  their  proud  battle-fields,  thy  sires  and  mine, 
Died  not  for  this ! 

Elm.  Oh,  cold  and  hard  of  heart ! 

Thou  shouldst  be  born  for  empire,  since  thy  Soul 
Thus  lightly  from  all  human  bonds  can  free 
Its  haughty  flight !     Men  !  men  !  too  much  is  yours 
Of  vantage  ;  ye  that  with  a  sound,  a  breath, 
A  shadow,  thus  can  fill  the  desolate  space 
Of  rooted-up  affections,  o'er  whose  void 
Our  yearning  hearts  must  wither  ! — So  it  is, 
Dominion  must  be  won!     Nay,  leave  me  not — 
My  heart  is  bursting,  and  I  must  be  heard  ! 
Heaven  hath  given  power  to  mortal  agony, 
As  to  the  elements  in  their  hour  of  might 
And  mastery  o'er  creation  !     Who  shall  dare 
To  mock  that  fearful  strength  ! — I  must  be  heard 
Give  me  my  sons ! 

Gon.  That  they  may  live  to  hide 

With  covering  hands  the  indignant  flush  of  shame 
On  their  young  brows,  when  men  shall  speak  of  him 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA  44* 

They  called  their  father ! — Was  the  oath,  whereby 

On  the  rltar  of  my  faith,  I  hound  myself, 

With  an  unswerving  spirit  to  maintain 

This  free  and  Christian  city  for  my  God, 

And  for  my  king,  a  writing  traced  on  sand 

That  passionate  tears  should  wash  it  from  the  earth, 

Or  even  the  life-drops  of  a  bleeding  heart 

Efface  it,  as  a  billow  sweeps  away 

The  last  light  vessel's  wake  ? — Then  never  more 

Let  man's  deep  vows  be  trusted ! — though  enforced 

By  al  the  appeals  of  high  remembrances, 

And  Silent  claims  of  the  sepulchres,  wherein 

His  fathers  with  their  stainless  glory  sleep, 

On  their  good  swords !     Thinkest  thou  /  feel  no  pangs  ? 

He  that  hath  given  me  sons  doth  know  the  heart 

Whose  treasure  He  recalls.     Of  this  no  more. 

'Tis  vain.     I  tell  thee  that  the  inviolate  cross 

Still  from  our  ancient  temples  must  look  up 

Through  the  blue  heavens  of  Spain,  though  at  its  foot 

I  perish,  with  my  race.     Thou  darest  not  ask 

That  I,  the  son  of  warriors — men  who  died 

To  fix  it  on  that  proud  supremacy — 

Should  tear  the  sign  of  our  victorious  faith 

From  its  high  place  of  sunbeams,  for  the  Moor 

In  impious  joy  to  trample  ! 

Elm.  Scorn  me  not 

In  mine  extreme  of  misery! — Thou  art  strong— 
Thy  heart  is  not  as  mine/   My  brain  grows  wild ; 
I  know  not  what  I  ask !— And'  yet  'twere  but 
Anticipating  fate — since  it  must  fall, 
That  cross  must  fall  at  last  !     There  is  no  power, 
No  hope  within  this  city  of  the  grave, 
To  keep  its  place  on  high.     Her  sultry  air 
Breaths  heavily  of  death,  her  warriors  sink 
Ben&ath  their  ancient  banners,  ere  the  Moor 
Hath  bent  his  bow  against  them ;  for  the  shaft 
Of  pestilence  flies  more  swiftly  to  its  mark 
Than  the  arrow  of  the  desert.    Even  the  skies 
O'erhang  the  desolate  splendor  of  her  domes 
With  an  ill  omen's  aspect,  shaping  forth, 
From  the  dull  clouds,  wild  menacing  forms  and  signs 
Foreboding  ruin.     Man  might  be  withstood. 
But  who  shall  cope  with  famine  and  disease 
When  leagued  with  armed  foes?— Where  now  the  aid, 
Where  the  long-promised  lances,  of  Castile  ! 
— We  are  forsaken  in  our  utmost  need— 
Bv  heaven  and  earth  forsaken ! 

'Con.  If  thl!  Jf 

(And  yet  I  will  not  deem  it),  we  must  fall 
As  men  that  in  severe  devotedness 

Have  chosen  their  part,  and  bound  themselves  to  death, 
Through  high  conviction  that  their  suffering  land, 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


By  the  free  blood  of  martyrdom  alone, 
Shall  call  deliverance  down. 

Elm.  Oh  !  I  have  stood 

Beside  thee  through  the  beating  storms  of  life, 
With  the  true  heart  of  unrepining  love, 
As  the  poor  peasant's  mate  doth  cheerily, 
In  the  parched  vineyard,  or  the  harvest-field, 
Bearing  her  part,  sustain  with  him  the  heat 
And  burden  of  the  day: — But  now  the  hour, 
The  heavy  hour  is  come,  when  human  strength 
Sinks  down,  a  toil-worn  pilgrim,  in  the  dust, 
Owning  that  woe  is  mightier ! — Spare  me  yet 
This  bitter  cup,  my  husband  !     Let  not  her, 
The  mother  of  the  lovely,  sit  and  mourn 
In  her  unpeopled  home,  a  broken  stem, 
O'er  its  fallen  roses  dying ! 

Gmi.  Urge  me  not, 

Thou  that  through  all  sharp  conflicts  hast  been  found 
Worthy  a  brave  man's  love ! — oh,  urge  me  not 
To  guilt,  which  through  the  midst  of  blinding  tears, 
In  its  own  hues  thou  seest  not ! — Death  may  scarce 
Bring  aught  like  this ! 

Elm.  All,  all  thy  gentle  race 

The  beautiful  things  that  around  thee  grew. 
Creatures  of  sunshine  !     Wilt  thou  doom  them  all  ? 
— She  too,  thy  daughter— doth  her  smile  unmarked 
Pass  from  thee,  with  its  radiance,  day  by  day  ? 
Shadows  are  gathering  round  her — seest  thou  not 
The  misty  dimness  of  the  spoiler's  breath 
Hangs  o'er  her  beauty,  and  the  face  which  made 
The  summer  of  our  hearts,  now  doth  but  send, 
With  every  glance,  deep  bodings  through  the  soul, 
Telling  of  early  fate. 

Gon.  I  see  a  change 

Far  nobler  on  her  brow  ! — She  is  as  one, 
Who,  at  the  trumpet's  sudden  call,  hath  risen 
From  the  gay  banquet,  and  in  scorn  cast  down 
The  wine-cup,  and  the  garland,  and  the  lute 
Of  festal  hours,  for  the  good  spear  and  helm, 
Beseeming  sterner  tasks. — Her  eye  hath  lost 
The  beam  which  laughed  upon  the  awakening  heart, 
E'en  as  morn  breaks  o'er  earth.     But  far  within 
Its  full  dark  orb,  a  light  hath  sprung,  whose  source 
Lies  deeper  in  the  soul, — And  let  the  torch 
Wrhich  but  illumed  the  glittering  pageant,  fade  1 
The  altar-flame,  i'  the  sanctuary's  recess, 
Burns  quenchless,  being  of  heaven ! — She  hath  put  on 
Courage,  and  faith,  and  generous  constancy, 
Even  as  a  breast-plate. — Ay,  men  look  on  her, 
As  she  goes  forth,  serenely  to  her  tasks, 
Binding  the  warrior's  wounds,  and  bearing  fresh 
Cool  draughts  to  fevered  lips  ;  they  look  on  heri 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  443 

Thus  moving  in  her  beautiful  array 
Of  gentle  fortitude,  and  bless  the  fair 
Majestic  vision,  and  unmurmuring  turn 
Unto  their  heavy  toils. 

I'-lm-  And  seest  thou  not 

In  that  high  faith  and  strong  collectedness, 
A  fearful  inspiration  ? — They  have  cause 
To  tremble,  who  behold  the  unearthly  light 
Of  high,  and,  it  may  be,  prophetic  thought, 
Investing  youth  with  grandeur  ! — From'the  grave 
It  rises,  on  whose  shadowy  brink  thy  child 
Waits  but  a  father's  hand  to  snatch  her  back 
Into  the  laughing  sunshine. — Kneel  with  me  ; 
Ximena,  kneel  beside  me,  and  implore 
That  which  a  deeper,  more  prevailing  voice 
Than  ours  doth  ask,  and  will  not  be  denied  ; 
— His  children's  lives  1 

Xim.  Alas  !  this  may  not  be, 

Mother!— I  cannot.  [Exit  XIMENA 

Gon.  My  heroic  child  ! 

— A  terrible  sacrifice  thou  claimst,  O  God  ! 
From  creatures  in  whose  agonizing  hearts 
Nature  is  strong  as  death  ! 

Elm.  Is't  thus  in  thine  ? 

Away ! — what  time  is  given  thee  to  resolve 
On — what  I  cannot  utter? — Speak  !  thou  knowst  • 
Too  well  what  I  would  say. 

Gon.  Until — ask  not ! 

The  time  is  brief. 

Elm.  Thou  saidst — I  heard  not  right — 

Gon.  The  time  is  brief. 

Elm.  What !  must  we  burst  all  ties 

Wherewith  the  thrilling  chords  of  life  are  twined ; 
And,  for  this  task's  fulfilment,  can  it  be 
That  man,  in  his  cold  heartlessness,  hath  dared 
To  number  and  to  mete  us  forth  the  sands 
Of  hours — nay,  moments?     Why,  the  sentenced  wretch, 
He  on  whose  soul  there  rests  a  brother's  blood 
Poured  forth  in  slumber,  is  allowed  more  time 
To  wean  his  turbulent  passions  from  the  world 
His  presence  doth  pollute  ! — It  is  not  thus  ! 
We  must  have  time  to  school  us. 

Gon.  We  have  but 

To  bow  the  head  in  silence,  when  Heaven's  voice 
Calls  back  the  things  we  love. 

Elm.  Love  !  love  ! — there  are  soft  smiles  and  gentle  words, 
And  there  are  faces,  skilful  to  put  on 
The  look  we  trust  in — and  'tis  mockery  all ! 
• — A  faithless  mist,  a  desert -vapor,  wearing 
The  brightness  of  clear  waters,  thus  to  cheat 
The  thirst  that  semblance  kindled  ! — There  is  none, 
In  all  this  cold,  and  hollow  world,  no  fount 


444  .    TtfE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Of  deep,  strong,  deathless  love,  save  that  within 

A  mother's  heart. — It  is  but  pride,  wherewith 

To  his  fair  son  the  father's  eye  doth  turn. 

Watching  his  growth.     Ay,  on  the  hoy  he  looks, 

The  bright  glad  creature  springing  in  his  path 

But  as  the  heir  of  his  great  name,  the  young 

And  stately  tree,  whose  rising  strength  ere  long 

Shall  bear  his  trophies  well. — And  this  is  love ! 

This  is  man's  love  ! — What  marvel  ? — you  ne'er  made 

Your  breast  the  pillow  of  his  infancy, 

While  to  the  fulness  of  your  heart's  glad  heavings 

His  fair  cheek  rose  and  fell ;  and  his  bright  hair 

Waved  softly  to  your  breath  ! — You  ne'er  kept  watch 

Beside  him,  till  the  last  pale  star  had  set, 

And  morn,  all  dazzling,  as  in  triumph,  broke 

On  your  dim  weary  eye ;  not  yours  the  face 

Which,  early  faded  through  fond  care  for  him, 

Hung  o'er  his  sleep,  and,  duly  as  heaven's  light, 

Was  there  to  greet  his  wakening  !     You  ne'er  smoothed 

His  couch,  ne'er  sung  him  to  his  rosy  rest, 

Caught  his  least  whisper,  when  his  voice  from  yours 

Had  learned  soft  utterance  ;  pressed  your  lip  to  his, 

When  fever  parched  it ;  hushed  his  wayward  cries, 

With  patient,  vigilant,  never-wearied  love  ! 

No  !  these  are  woman"1!  tasks  ! — In  these  her  youth, 

And  bloom  of  cheek,  and  buoyancy  of  heart, 

Steal  from  her  all  unmarked  ?— My  boys !  my  boys ! 

Hath  vain  affection  borne  with  all  for  this  ? 

— Why  were  ye  given  me  ? 

Con.  Is  there  strength  in  man 

Thus  to  endure  ?    That  thou  couldst  read,  through  all 
Its  depths  of  silent  agony,  the  heart 
Thy  voice  of  woe  doth  rend ! 

Elm.  Thy  heart — thy  heart ! — Away  1  it  feels  not  now  t 
But  an  hour  comes  to  tame  the  mightv  man 
Unto  the  infant's  weakness  ;  nor  shall  Heaven 
Spare  you  that  bitter  chastening ! — May  you  live 
To  be  alone,  when  loneliness  doth  seem 
Most  heavy  to  sustain  ! — For  me,  my  voice  . 

Of  prayer  and  fruitless  weeping  shall  be  soon 
With  all  forgotten  sounds  ;  my  quiet  place 
Low  with  my  lovely  ones,  and  we  shall  sleep 
Though  kings  lead  armies  o'er  us,  we  shall  sleep, 
Wrapt  in  earth's  covering  mantle ! — you  the  while 
Shall  sit  within  your  vast,  forsaken  halls, 
And  hear  the  wild  and  melancholy  winds 
Moan  through  their  drooping  banners,  never  more 
To  wave  above  your  race.     Ay,  then  call  up 
Shadows — dim  phantoms  from  ancestral  tombs, 
But  all,  all — glorious— conquerors,  chieftains,  kings, 
To  people  that  cold  void  ! — And  when  the  strength 
From  your  right  arm  hath  melted,  when  the  blast 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  445 

Of  the  shrill  clarion  gives  your  heart  no  more 

A  fiery  wakening  ;  if  at  last  you  pine 

For  the  glad  voices,  and  the  bounding  steps, 

Once  through  your  home  re-echoing,  and  the  clasp 

Of  twining  arms,  and  all  the  joyous  light 

Of  eyes  that  laughed  with  youth,  and  made  your  board 

A  place  of  sunshine  ; — when  those  days  are  come, 

Then,  in  your  uttei  desolation,  turn 

To  the  cold  world,  the  smiling,  faithless  would, 

Which  hath  swept  past  you  long,  and  bid  it  quench 

Your  soul's  deep  thirst  with/amf!  immortal  fame! 

Fame  to  the  sick  of  heart ! — a  gorgeous  robe, 

A  crown  of  victory,  unto  him  that  dies 

In  the  burning  waste,  for  water  1 

Con.  This  from  thee  I 

Now  the  last  drop  of  bitterness  is  poured. 
Elmina — I  forgive  thee  !  [Exit  KLMINA. 

Aid  me,  Heaven! 

From  whom  alone  is  power  ! — Oh  1  thou  hast  set 
Duties  so  stern  of  aspect,  in  my  path, 
They  almost,  to  my  startled  gaze,  assume 
The  hue  of  things  less  hallowed!     Men  have  sunk 
Unblamed  beneath  such  trials  1     Doth  not  He 
Who  made  us  know  the  limits  of  our  strength  ? 
My  wife  !  my  sons  ! — Away  !  I  must  not  pause 
To  give  my  heart  one  moment's  mastery  thus ! 

f  Exit  GONZALEZ 


SCENE  II.—  The  Aisle  of  a  Gothic  Church. 
HERNANDEZ,  GARCIAS,  and  others. 

Her.  The  rites  are  closed.     Now,  valiant  men  depart, 
Each  to  his  place— I  may  not  say,  of  rest— 
Your  faithful  vigils  for  your  sons  may  win 
What  must  not  be  your  own.     Ye  are  as  those 
Who  sow,  in  peril  and  in  care,  the  seed 
Of  the  fair  tree,  beneath  whose  stately  shade 
They  may  not  sit.     But  blessed  be  those  who  toil 
For  after-days  I— All  high  and  holy  thoughts 
Be  with  you,  warriors,  through  the  lingering  hours 
Of  the  night-watch ! 

Gar.  Ay,  father  !  we  have  need 

Of  high  and  holy  thoughts,  wherewith  to  fence 
Our  hearts  against  despair.     Yet  have  I  been 
From  youth  a  son  of  war.     The  stars  have  looked 
A  thousand  times  upon  my  couch  of  heath, 
Spread  'midst  the  wild  sierras,  by  some  stream 
Whose  dark-red  waves  looked  e'en  as  though  their  source 
Lay  not  in  rocky  caverns,  but  the  veins 
Of  noble  hearts ;  while  many  a  knightly  crest 


446  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


Rolled  with  them  to  the  deep.     And,  in  the  years 
Of  rr\y  long  exile  and  captivity, 
With  the  fierce  Arab  I  have  watched  beneath 
The  still  pale  shadow  of  some  lonely  palm, 
At  midnight  in  the  desert ;  while  the  wind 
Swelled  with  the  lion's  roar,  and  heavily 
The  fearfulness  and  might  of  solitude 
Pressed  on  my  weary  heart. 

Her.  (thoughtfully.)  Thou  little  knowest 

Of  what  is  solitude  ! — I  .tell  thee,  those 
For  whom — in  earth's  remotest  nook,  howe'er 
Divided  from  their  path  by  chain  on  chain 
Of  mighty  mountains,  and  the  amplitude 
Of  rolling  seas — there  beats  one  human  heart, 
There  breathes  one  being,  unto  whom  their  name 
Comes  with  a  thrilling  and  a  gladdening  sound 
Heard  o'er  the  din  of  life,  are  not  alone ! 
Not  on  the  deep,  nor  in  the  wild,  alone  : 
For  there  is  that  on  earth  with  which  they  hold 
A  brotherhood  of  soul !    Call  him  alone, 
Who  stands  shut  out  from  this  ! — and  let  not  those 
Whose  homes  are  bright  with  sunshine  and  with  love, 
Put  on  the  insolence  of  happiness, 
Glorying  in  that  proud  lot  ! — A  lonely  hour 
Is  on  its  way  to  each,  to  all ;  for  Death 
Knows  no  companionship. 

Gar.  I  have  looked  on  Death 

In  field,  and  storm,  and  flood.     But  never  yet 
Hath  aught  weighed  down  my  spirit  to  a  mood 
Of  sadness,  dreaming  o'er  dark  auguries, 
Like  this,  our  watch  by  midnight.     Fearful  things 
Are  gathering  round  us.     Death  upon  the  earth, 
Omens  in  heaven  !     The  summer  skies  put  forth 
No  clear  bright  stars  above  us,  but  at  times, 
Catching  some  comet's  fiery  hue  of  wrath, 
Marshal  their  clouds  to  armies,  traversing 
Heaven  with  the  rush  of  meteor-steeds,  the  array 
Of  spears  and  banners,  tossing  like  the  pines 
Of  Pyrenean  forests,  when  the  storm 
Doth  sweep  the  mountains. 

Her.  Ay,  last  night  I  too 

Kept  vigil,  gazing  on  the  angry  heavens : 
And  I  beheld  the  meeting  and  the  shock 
Of  those  wild  hosts  in  the  air,  when,  as  they  closed, 
A  red  and  sultry  mist,  like  that  which  mantles 
The  thunder's  path,  fell  o'er  them.     Then  were  flung 
Through  the  dull  glare  broad  cloudy  banners  forth, 
And  chariots  seemed  to  whirl,  and  steeds  to  sink, 
Bearing  down  crested  warriors.     But  all  this 
Was  dim  and  shadowy  ; — then  swift  darkness  rushed 
Down  on  the  unearthly  battle,  as  the  deep 
Swept  o'er  the  Egyptian's  armament.     I  looked— 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  447 

And  all  that  fiery  field  of  plumes  and  spears 

Was  blotted  from  heaven's  face  I     I  looked  again—- 

And from  the  brooding  mass  of  cloud  leaped  forth 

One  meteor-sword,  which  o'er  the  reddening  sea 

Shook  with  strange  motion,  such  as  earthquakes  give 

Unto  a  rocking  citadel  !  —  I  beheld, 

And  yet  my  spirit  sunk  not. 

Gar.  Neither  deem 

That  mine  hath  blenched.     But  these  are  sights  and  souno. 
To  awe  the  firmest.  —  Knowst  thou  what  we  hear 
At  midnight  from  the  walls  ?     Were  it  but  the  deep 
Barbaric  horn,  or  Moorish  tambour's  peal, 
Thence  might  the  warrior's  heart  catch  impulses 
Quickening  its  fiery  currents.     But  our  ears 
Are  pierced  by  other  tones.     We  hear  the  knell 
For  brave  men  in  their  noon  of  strength  cut  down, 
And  the  shrill  wail  of  woman,  and  the  dirge 
Faint  swelling  through  the  streets.    Then  e'en  the  air 
Hath  strange  and  fitful  murmurs  of  lament, 
As  if  the  viewless  watchers  of  the  land 
Sighed  on  its  hollow  breezes  I     To  my  soul, 
The  torrent  rush  of  battle,  with  its  din 
Of  trampling  steeds  and  ringing  panoply, 
Were,  after  these  faint  sounds  of  drooping  woe, 
As  the  free  sky's  glad  music  unto  him 
Who  leaves  a  couch  of  sickness. 

Her.  (with  solemnity'].  If  to  plunge 

In  the  mid-waves  of  combat,  as  they  bear 

Chargers  and  spearmen  onwards  ;  and  to  make 

A  reckless  bosom's  front  the  buoyant  mark, 

On  that  wild  current,  for  ten  thousand  arrows  ; 

If  thus  to  dare  were  valor's  noblest  aim, 

Lightly  might  fame  be  won  !     But  there  are  things 

Which  ask  a  spirit  of  more  exalted  pitch, 

And  courage  tempered  with  a  holier  fire  ! 

Well  mayst  thou  say  that  these  are  fearful  times, 

Therefore  be  firm,  be  patient  !—  There  is  strength, 

And  a  fierce  instinct,  e'en  in  common  souls, 

To  bear  up  manhood  with  a  stormy  joy, 

When  red  swords  meet  in  lightning  !—  But  our  task 

Is  more  and  nobler  !     We  have  to  endure, 

And  to  keep  watch,  and  to  arouse  a  land, 

And  to  defend  an  altar  !     If  we  fall, 

So  that  our  blood  make  but  the  millionth  part 

Of  Spain's  great  ransom,  we  may  count  it  joy 

To  die  upon  her  bosom,  and  beneath 

The  banner  of  her  faith  !     Think  but  on  this, 

And  gird  your  hearts  with  silent  fortitude, 

Suffering,  yet  hoping  all  things—  Fare  ye  well. 
Gar.  Father,  farewell. 


These  men  have  earthly  ties 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


And  bondage  on  their  natures  !     To  the  cause 

Of  God,  and  Spain's  revenge,  they  bring  but  half 

Their  energies  and  hopes.     But  he  whom  Heaven 

Hath  called  to  be  the  awakener  of  a  land, 

Should  have  his  soul's  affections  all  absorbed 

In  that  majestic  purpose,  and  press  on 

To  its  fulfilment,  as  a  mountain-born 

And  mighty  stream,  with  all  its  vassal-rills, 

Sweeps  proudly  to  the  ocean,  pausing  not 

To  dally  with  the  flowers      Hark  !     What  quick  step 

Comes  hurrying  through  the  gloom  at  this  dead  hour  ? 

(ELMINA  enters.) 

Elm.  Are  not  all  hours  as  one  to  misery  ?     Why 
Should  she  take  note  of  time,  for  whom  the  day 
And  night  have  lost  their  blessed  attributes 
Of  sunshine  and  repose  ? 

Her  I  know  thy  griefs  ; 

But  there  are  trials  for  the  noble  heart, 
Wherein  its  own  deep  fountains  must  supply 
All  it  can  hope  of  comfort.     Pity's  voice 
Comes  with  vain  sweetness  to  the  unheeding  ear 
Of  anguish,  e'en  as  music  heard  afar 
On  the  green  shore,  by  him  who  perishes 
'Midst  rocks  and  eddying  waters. 

Elm  Think  thou  not 

I  sought  thee  but  for  pity.     I  am  come 
For  that  which  grief  is  privileged  to  demand 
With  am  imperious  claim,  from  all  whose  form, 
Whose  human  form,  doth  seal  them  unto  suffering! 
Father  !  I  ask  thine  aid. 

Her.  There  is  no  aid 

For  thee  or  for  thy  children,  but  with  Him 
Whose  presence  is  around  us  in  the  cloud, 
As  in  the  shining  and  the  glorious  light. 

Elm.  There  is  no  aid  !  —  art  thou  a  man  of  God  ? 
Art  thou  a  man  of  sorrow  ?  —  for  the  world 
Doth  call  thee  such  —  and  hast  thou  not  been  taught 
By  God  and  sorrow  ?  —  mighty  as  they  are, 
To  own  the  claims  of  misery  ? 

Her.  Is  there  power 

With  me  to  save  thy  sons  ?  —  implore  of  Heaven  1 

Elm.  Doth  not  Heaven  work  its  purposes  by  mani 
I  tell  thee  thou  canst  save  them  !     Art  thou  not 
Gonzalez'  counsellor  ?     Unto  him  thy  words 
Are  e'en  as  oracles  - 

Her.  And  therefore  ?  —  Speak  ! 

The  noble  daughter  of  Pelayo's  line 
Hath  naught  to  ask,  unworthy  of  the  name 
Which  is  a  nation's  heritage.     Dost  thou  shrink? 

Elm.  Have  pity  on  me,  father  !     I  must  speak 
That  from  the  thought  of  which  but  yesterday 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  449 

I  had  recoiled  in  scorn ! — But  this  is  past. 

Oh !  we  grow  humble  in  our  agonies, 

And  to  the  dust — their  birthplace — bow  the  heads 

That  wore  the  crown  of  glory !     I  am  weak — 

My  chastening  is  far  more  than  I  can  bear. 

Her.  These  are  no  times  for  weakness.     On  our  hills 
The  ancient  cedars,  in  their  gathered  might, 
Are  battling  with  the  tempest ;  and  the  flower 
Which  cannot  meet  its  driving  blast  must  die. 
But  thou  hast  drawn  thy  nurture  from  a  stem 
Unwont  to  bend  or  break.     Lift  thy  proud  head, 
Daughter  of  Spain  ! — what  wouldst  thou  with  thy  lord? 

Elm.  Look  not  upon  me  thus  ! — I  have  no  power 
To  tell  thee.     Take  thy  keen  disdainful  eye 
Off  from  my  soul !     What !  am  I  sunk  to  this  ? 
I,  whose  blood  sprung  from  heroes  1     How  my  sons 
Will  scorn  the  mother  that  would  bring  disgrace 
On  their  majestic  line  !     My  sons  !  my  sons  ! 
Now  is  all  else  forgotten ! — I  had  once 
A  babe  that  in  the  early  spring-time  lay 
Sickening  upon  my  bosom,  till  at  last, 
When  earth's  young  flowers  were  opening  to  the  sun. 
Death  sunk  on  his  meek  eyelid,  and  I  deemed 
All  sorrow  light  to  mine !     But  now  the  fate 
Of  all  my  children  seems  to  brood  above  me 
In  the  dark  thunder-clouds  !— Oh!  I  have  power 
And  voice  unfaltering  now  to  speak  my  prayer 
And  my  last  lingering  hope,  that  thou  shouldst  wi» 
The  father  to  relent,  to  save  his  sons  I 

Her.  By  yielding  up  the  city  ? 

Elm.     '  Rathef  say 

By  meeting  that  which  gathers  close  upon  us 
Perchance  one  clay  the  sooner ! — Is  it  not  so  ? 
Must  we  not  yield  at  last  ?     How  long  shall  man 
Array  his  single  breast  against  disease, 
And  famine,  and  the  sword  ? 

Her.  How  long  ?— While  He 

Who  shadows  forth  His  power  more  gloriously 
In  the  high  deeds  and  sufferings  of  the  soul, 
Than  in  the  circling  heavens,  with  all  their  stars, 
Or  the  far-sounding  deep,  doth  send  abroad 
A  spirit,  which  takes  affliction  for  its  mate, 
In  the  good  cause,  with  solemn  joy ! — How  long  ? 
— And  who  art  thou,  that,  in  the  littleness- 
Of  thine  own  selfish  purpose,  wouldst  set  bound* 
To  the  free  current  of  all  noble  thought 
And  generous  action,  bidding  its  bright  waves 
Be  stayed,  and  flow  no  further?— But  the  Power 
Whose  interdict  is  laid  on  seas  and  orbs, 
To  chain  them  in  from  wandering,  hath  assigned 
No  limits  unto  that  which  man's  high  strength 
Shall,  through  its  aid,  achieve  I 


45°  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Elm.  Oh  !  there  are  time*. 

When  all  that  hopeless  courage  can  achieve 
But  sheds  a  mournful  beauty  o'er  the  fate 
Of  those  who  die  in  vain. 

Her.  Who  dies  in  vain 

Upon  his  country's  war-fields,  and  within 
The  shadow  of  her  altars  ? — Feeble  heart ! 
I  tell  thee  that  the  voice  of  noble  blood, 
Thus  poured  for  faith  and  freedom,  hath  a  tone 
Which,  from  the  night  of  ages,  from  the  gulf 
Of  death,  shall  burst,  and  make  its  high  appeal 
Sound  unto  earth  and  heaven !     Ay,  let  the  land, 
Whose  sons,  through  centuries  of  woe,  have  striven, 
And  perished  by  her  temples,  sink  awhile, 
Borne  down  in  conflict !     But  immortal  seed 
Deep,  by  heroic  suffering,  hath  been  sown 
On  all  her  ancient  hills ;  and  generous  hope 
Knows  that  the  soil,  in  its  good  time,  shall  yet 
Bring  forth  a  glorious  harvest  I     Earth  receives 
Not  one  red  drop  from  faithful  hearts  in  vain. 

Elm.  Then  it  must  be  ! — And  ye  will  make  those  lives, 
.  Those  young  bright  lives,  an  offering — to  retard 
Our  doom  one  day ! 

Her  The  mantle  of  that  day 

May  wrap  the  fate  of  Spain ! 

Elm.  What  led  me  here  ? 

Why  did  I  turn  to  thee  in  my  despair  ? 
Love  hath  no  ties  upon  thee  ;  what  had  I 
To  hope  from  thee,  thou  lone  and  childless  man! 
Go  to  thv  silent  home  ! — there  no  young  voice 
Shall  bid  thee  welcome,  no  light  footstep  spring 
Forth  at  the  sound  of  thine  ! — What  knows  thy  heart? 

Her.  W^Bian  !  how  darest  thou  taunt  me  with  my  woes? 
Thy  children  too  shall  perish,  and  I  say 
It  shall  be  well !     Why  takest  thou  thought  for  them? 
Wearing  thy  heart,  and  wasting  down  thy  life 
Unto  its  dregs,  and  making  night  thy  time 
Of  care  yet  more  intense,  and  casting  health, 
Unprized,  to  melt  away,  i'  the  bitter  cup 
Thou  minglest  for  thyself  ? — Why,  what -have  earth 
To  pay  thee  back  for  this  ?     Shall  they  not  live 
(If  the  sword  spare  them  now)  to  prove  how  soon 
All  love  may  be  forgotten  ?     Years  of  thought, 
Long  faithful  watchings,  looks  of  tenderness, 
That  changed  not,  though  to  change  be  this  world's  law- 
Shall  they  not  flush  thy  cheek  with  shame,  whose  blood 
Marks,  e'en  like  branding  iron  ? — to  thy  sick  heart 
Make  death  a  want,  as  sleep  to  weariness  ? 
Doth  not  all  hope  end  thus  ? — or  e'en  at  best 
Will  they  not  leave  thee  ? — far  from  thee  seek  room. 
F->r  the  o'erflowings  of  their  fiery  souls, 
On  life's  wide  ocean  ?    Give  the  bounding  steed, 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  451 


Or  the  winged  bark  to  youth,  that  his  free  course 
May  be  o'er  hills  and  seas;  and  weep  thou  not 
In  thy  forsaken  home,  for  the  bright  world 
Lies  all  before  him,  and  be  sure  he  wastes 
No  thought  on  thee  ! 

Elm.  Not  so !  it  is  not  so ! 

Thou  dost  but  torture  me  !     My  sons  are  kind, 
And  brave,  and  gentle. 

Her.  Others  too  have  worn 

The  semblance  of  all  good.     Nay,  stay  thee  yet ; 
I  will  be  calm,  and  thou  shalt  learn  how  earth, 
The  fruitful  in  all  agonies,  hath  woes 
"Which  far  outweigh  thine  own. 

Elm.  It  may  not  be  ! 

Wkose  grief  is  like  a  mother's  for  her  sons  ? 

Her.  My  son  lay  stretched  upon  his  battle-bier, 
And  there  were  hands  wrung  o'er  him  which  had  caugl. 
Their  hue  from  his  young  blood ! 

Elm.  What  tale  is  this  ? 

Her.  Read  you  no  records  in  this  mien,  of  things 
Whose  traces  on  man's  aspect  are  not  such 
As  the  breeze  leaves  on  water  ?     Lofty  birth, 
War,  peril,  power  ? — Affliction's  hand  is  strong, 
If  it  erase  the  haughty  characters 
They  grave  so  deep  ! — I  have  not  always  been 
That  which  I  am.     The  name  I  bore  is  not 
Of  those  which  perish ! — I  was  once  a  chief— 
A  warrior — nor  as  now,  a  lonely  man  ! 
I  was  a  father  I 

Elm.  Then  thy  heart  can  feel  I 

Thou  wilt  have  pity  ! 

Her.                               Should  I  pity  thee  ? 
Thy  sons  will  perish  gloriously — their  blood 

Elm.  Their  blood  !  my  children's  blood !— Thou  speakest 

as  'twere 

Of  casting  down  a  wine-cup,  in  the  mirth 
And  wantonness  of  feasting  ! — My  fair  boys! 
— Man !  hast  thvu  been  a  father  ? 

Her.  Let  them  die ! 

Let  them  die  now,  thy  children !  so  thy  heart 
Shall  wear  their  beautiful  image  all  undimmed 
Within  it,  to  the  last !     Nor  shalt  thou  learn 
The  bitter  lesson,  of  what  worthless  dust 
Are  framed  the  idols,  whose  false  glory  binds 
Earth's  fetter  on  our  souls !     Thou  thinkest  it  much 
To  mourn  the  early  dead  ;  but  there  are  tears 
Heavy  with  deeper  anguish  !     We  endow 
Those  whom  we  love,  in  our  fond  passionate  blindness, 
With  power  upon  our  souls,  too  absolute 
To  be  a  mortal's  trust !     Within  their  hands 
We  lay  the  naming  sword,  whose  stroke  alone 
Can  reach  our  hearts,  and  they  are  merciful, 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


As  they  are  strong,  that  wield  it  not  to  pierce  us  ! 

—  Ay,  fear  them,  fear  the  loved  !     Had  I  but  wept 
O'er  my  son's  grave,  or  o'er  a  babe's,  where  tears 
Are  as  spring  dewdrops,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
And  brightening  the  young  verdure,  I  might  still 
Have  loved  and  trusted  ! 

Elm.  (disdainfully.}         Bat  he  fell  in  war  ! 
And  hath  not  glory  medicine  in  her  cup 
For  the  brief  pangs  of  nature  ? 

Her.  Glory  .'—Peace, 

And  listen  !  —  By  my  side  the  stripling  grew, 
Last  of  my  line.     I  reared  him  to  take  joy 
I*  the  blaze  of  arms,  as  eagles  train  their  young 
To  look  upon  the  day  -king  !     His  quick  blood 
Even  to  his  boyish  cheek  would  mantle  up, 
When  the  heavens  rang  with  trumpets,  and  his  eye 
Flash  with  the  spirit  of  a  race  whose  deeds  — 
But  this  availeth  not  !     Yet  he  was  brave. 
I've  seen  him  clear  himself  a  path  in  fight 
As  lightning  through  a  forest,  and  his  plume 
Waved  like  a  torch,  above  the  battle-storm, 
The  soldier's  guide,  when  princely  crests  had  sunk, 
And  banners  were  struck  down.     Around  my  steps 
Floated  his  fame,  like  music,  and  I  lived 
But  in  the  lofty  sound.     But  when  my  heart 
In  one  frail  ark  had  ventured  all,  when  most 
He  seemed  to  stand  between  my  soul  and  heaven, 

—  Then  came  the  thunder-stroke  ! 

Elm.  'Tis  ever  thus  I 

And  the  unquiet  and  foreboding  sense 
That.thus  'twill  ever  be,  doth  link  itself 
Darkly  with  all  deep  love  I  —  He  died  ? 

Her.  Not  so  ! 

—  Death  I  Death  !  —  Why,  earth  should  be  a  paradise, 
To  make  that  name  so  fearful  !     Had  he  died, 
With  his  young  fame  about  him  for  a  shroud 

I  had  not  learned  the  might  of  agony, 
To  bring  proud  natures  low  !     No  I  he  fell  off  — 
Why  do  I  tell  thee  this  ;  —  what  right  hast  thou 
To  learn  how  passed  the  glory  from  my  house  ? 
Yet  listen  !  —  He  forsook  me  !     He,  that  was 
As  mine  own  soul,  forsook  me  !  trampled  o'er 
The  ashes  of  his  sires  !  —  ay,  leagued  himself 
E'en  with  the  infidel,  the  curse  of  Spain  ; 
And,  for.  the  dark  eye  of  a  Moorish  maid, 
Abjured  his  faith,  his  God  !  —  Now,  talk  of-death  ! 

Elm.  Oh  !  I  can  pit}-  thee  - 

Her.  There's  more  to  hear. 

I  braced  the  corslet  o'er  my  heart's  deep  wound, 
And  cast  my  troubled  spirit  on  the  tide 
Of  war  and  high  events,  whose  stormy  waves 
Might  bear  it  up  from  sinking  ;—  — 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  453 

Elm.  And  ye  met 

No  more  ? 

Her.  Be  still  !  we  did  !  we  met  once  more, 

God  had  his  own  high  purpose  to  fulfil, 
Or  thinkest  thou  that  the  sun  in  his  bright  heaven 
Had  looked  upon  such  things  ?     We  met  once  mart. 
That  was  an  hour  to  leave  its  lightning-mark 
Seared  upon  brain  and  bosom  !     There  had  been 
Combat  on  Ebro's  banks,  and  when  the  day 
Sank  in  red  clouds,  it  faded  from  a  field 
Still  held  by  Moorish  "iances.     Night  closed  round — 
A  night  of  sultry  darkness,  in  the  shadow 
Of  whose  broad  wing,  e'en  unto  death,  I  strove 
Long  with  a  turbaned  champion  ;  but  my  sword 
Was  heavy  with  God's  vengeance — and  prevailed. 
He  fell — n.y  heart  exulted — and  I  stood 
In  gloomy  triumph  o'er  him.     Nature  gave 
No  sign  of  horror,  for  'twas  Heaven's  decree ! 
He  strove  to  speak — but  I  had  done  the  work 
Of  wrath  too  well ; — yet  in  his  last  deep  moan 
A  dreadful  something  of  familiar  sound 
Came  o'er  my  shuddering  sense.    The  moon  looked  forth, 
And  I  beheld — speak  not !  'twas  he — my  son  ! 
My  boy  lay  dying  there  !     He  raised  one  glance, 
And  knew  me— for  he  sought  with  feeble  hand 
To  cover  his  glazed  eyes.     A  darker  veil 
Sank  o'er  them  soon.— I  will  not  have  thy  look 
Fixed  on  me  thus  !     Away  ! 

Elm.  Thou  hast  seen  this, 

Thou  hast  done  tnis— and  yet  thou  livest  ? 

Her.  I  live  ! 

And  knowest  thou  wherefore  ?— On  my  soul  there  fell 
A  horror  of  great  darkness,  which  shut  out 
All  earth,  and  heaven,  and  hope.     I  cast  away 
The  spear  and  helm,  and  made  the  cloister's  shade 
The  home  of  my  despair.     But  a  deep  voice 
Came  to  me  through  the  gloom,  and  sent  its  tones 
Far  through  my  bosom's  depths.     And  I  awoke, 
Ay,  as  the  mountain-cedar  doth  shake  off 
Its  weight  of  wintry  snow,  e'en  so  I  shook 
Despondence  from  my  soul,  and  knew  myself 
Sealed  by  that  blood  wherewith  my  hands  were  dyed 
And  set  apart,  and  fearfully  marked  out 
Unto  a  mighty  task  .'—To  rouse  the  soul 
Of  Spain  as  from  the  dead  ;  and  to  lift  up 
The  cross,  her  sign  of  victory,  on  the  hills, 
Gathering  her  sons  to  battle  !     And  my  voice 
Must  be  as  freedom's  trumpet  on  the  winds, 
From  Roncesvalles  to  the  blue  sea-waves 
Where  Calpe  looks  on  Afric  ;  till  the  land 
Have  filled  her  cup  of  vengeance  !— Ask  me  now 
To  yield  the  Christian  city,  that  its  fanes 


454  THE  SIEGE  Of  VALENCIA 

May  rear  the  minaret  in  the  face  of  heaven ! — 
But  death  shall  have  a  bloodier  vintage-feast 
Ere  that  day  come  1 

Elm.  I  ask  thee  this  no  more, 

For  I  am  hopeless  now.     But  yet  one  boon — 
Hear  me,  by  all  thy  woes  !     Thy  voice  hath  power 
Through  the  wide  city — here  I  cannot  rest  :  — 
Aid  me  to  pass  the  gates ! 

Her.  And  wherefore  ? 

Elm.  Thou, 

That  wert  a  father,  and  art  now — alone ! 
Canst  thou  ask  "  wherefore  ? " — Ask  the  wretch  whose  sands 
Have  not  an  hour  to  run,  whose  failing  limbs 
Have  but  one  earthly  journey  to  perform, 
Why,  on  his  pathway  to  the  place  of  death, 
•     Ay,  when  the  very  axe  is  glistening  cold 
Upon  his  dizzy  sight,  his  pale,  parched  lip 
Implores  a  cup  of  water?     Why,  the  stroke 
Which  trembles  o'er  him  in  itse'lf  shall  bring 
Oblivion  of  all  wants,  yet  who  denies 
Nature's  last  prayer  ?     I  tell  thee  that  the  thirst 
Which  burns  my  spirit  up  is  agony 
To  be  endured  no  more  !     And  \  must  look 
Upon  my  children's  faces,  I  must  hear 
Their  voices,  ere  they  perish  ! — But  hath  Heaven 
Decreed  that  they  must  perish  ?     Who  shall  say 
If  in  yon  Moslem  camp  there  beats  no  heart 
Which  prayers  and  tears  may  melt  ? 

Her.  There  !— with  the  Moor  I 

Let  him  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  guilt ! 
— 'Tis  madness  all !     How  wouldst  thou  pass  the  array 
Of  armed  foes  ? 

Elm.  Oh  !  free  doth  sorrow  pass, 

Free  and  unquestioned,  through  a  suffering  world  ! 

Her.  This  must  not  be.     Enough  of  woe  is  laid 
E'en  now  upon  thy  lord's  heroic  soul, 
For  man  to  bear,  unsinking.     Press  thou  not 
Too  heavily  the  o'erburthened  heart. — Away ! 
Bow  down  the  knee,  and  send  thy  prayers  for  strength 
Up  to  Heaven's  gate.— Farewell !  [Exit  HERNANCK* 

Elm.  Are  all  men  thus  ? — 

Why,  were  't  not  better  they  should  fall  e'en  now 
Than  live  to  shut  their  hearts,  in  haughty  scorn, 
Against  the  sufferer's  pleadings  ?     But  no,  no  ! 
Who  can  be  like  this  man,  that  slew  his  son, 
Yet  wears  his  life  still  proudly,  and  a  soul 
Untamed  upon  his  brow  ? 

(After  a  pause.) 

There's  one,  whose  arms 
Have  borne  my  children  in  their  infancy, 
And  on  whose  knees  they  sported,  and  whose  hand 


THE  SIEGE  Of  VALENCIA.  4.55 


Hath  led  them  oft — a  vassal  of  their  sires  ; 
And  I  'vill  seek  him  :  he  may  lend  me  aid, 
Wlwi  all  beside  pass  on. 

DIRGE,  HEARD  WITHOUT. 

Thou  to  thy  rest  are  gone, 
High  heart !  and  what  are  we, 
While  o'er  our  heads  the  storm  sweeps  on, 
That  we  should  mourn  for  thee  ? 

Free  grave  and  peaceful  bier 
To  the  buried  son  of  Spain  ! 
To  those  that  live,  the  lance  and  spear, 
And  well  if  not  the  chain  ! 

Be  theirs  to  weep  the  dead, 
As  they  sit  beneath  their  vines, 
Whose  flowery  land  hath  borne  no  tread 
Of  spoilers  o'er  it  shrines ! 

Thou  hast  thrown  off  the  load 
Which  we  must  yet  sustain, 
And  pour  our  blood  where  thine  hath  flowed, 
Too  blast  if  not  in  vain  I 

We  give  thee  holy  rite, 
Slow  knell,  and  chanted  strain. 
For  those  that  fall  to-morrow  night. 
May  be  left  no  funeral-train. 

Again,  when  trumpets  wake, 
We  must  brace  our  armor  on  ; 
Rut  a  deeper  note  thy  sleep  must  break— 
Thou  to  thy  rest  art  gone  I 

Happier  in  this  than  all, 
That,  now  thy  race  is  run, 
Upon  thy  name  no  stain  may  fall, 
Thy  work  hath  well  been  done! 

Elm.  "  Thy  work  hath  well  been  done ! " — so  thou  may'st  rest ! — 
There  is  a  solemn  lesson  in  those  words — 
But  now  I  may  not  pause.  [Exit  ELM  IN 

SCENE  III.— A  Street  in  the  City. 
HERNANDEZ — GONZALEZ. 

Her.  Would  they  not  hear  ? 

Gon.  They  beard,  as  one  that  stand* 

By  the  cold  grave  which  hath  but  newly  closed 
O'er  his  last  friend  doth  hear  some  passer-by 
Bid  him  be  comforted ! — Their  hearts  have  diet? 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


Within  them!  —  We  must  perish,  not  as  those 
That  fall  when  battle's  voice  doth  shake  the  hills, 
And  peal  through  heaven's  great  arch,  but  silently, 
And  with  a  wasting  of  the  spirit  down, 
A  quenching,  day  by  day,  of  some  bright  spark, 
Which  lit  us  on  our  toils!  —  Reproach  me  not; 
My  soul  is  darkened  with  a  heavy  cloud  — 
Yet  fear  not  I  shall  yield  ! 

Her.  Breathe  not  the  word, 

Save  in  proud  scorn  !     Each  bitter  day  o'erpassed 
By  slow  endurance,  is  a  triumph  won 
For  Spain's  red  cross.     And  be  of  trusting  heart! 
A  few  brief  hours,  and  those  that  turned  away 
In  cold  despondence,  shrinking  from  your  voice, 
May  crowd  around  their  leader,  and  demand 
To  be  arrayed  for  battle.     We  must  watch 
For  the  swift  impulse,  and  await  its  time, 
As  the  bark  waits  the  ocean's.     You  have  chosen 
To  kindle  up  their  souls,  an  hour,  perchance, 
When  they  were  weary;  they  had  cast  aside 
Their  arms  to  slumber;  or  a  knell,  just  then, 
With  its  deep  hollow  tone,  had  made  the  blood 
Creep  shuddering  through  their  veins  ;  or  they  had  caught 
A  glimpse  of  some  new  meteor,  and  shaped  forth 
Strange  omems  from  its  blaze. 

GOH.  Alas  !  the  cause 

Lies  deeper  in  their  misery!  —  I  have  seen, 
In  my  night's  course  through  this  beleaguered  city, 
Things  whose  remembrance  doth  not  pass  away 
As  vapors  from  the  mountains.  —  There  were  some, 
That  sat  beside  their  dead,  with  eyes  wherein 
Grief  had  ta'en  place  of  sight,  and  shut  out  all 
But  its  own  ghastly  object,     To  my  voice 
Some  answered  with  a  fierce  and  bitter  laugh, 

As  men  whose  agonies  were  made  to  pas* 

The  bounds  of  sufferance,  by  some  reckless  word, 

Dropt  from  the  light  of  spirit.     Others  lay  — 

Why  should  I  tell  thee,  father!  how  despair 

Can  bring  the  lofty  brow  of  manhood  do.wn 

Unto  the  very  dust?     And  yet  for  this, 

Fear  not  that  I  embrace  my  doom  —  Oh  God  ! 

That  'twere  my  doom  alone  !  —  with  less  of  fixed 

And  solemn  fortitude.     Lead  on,  prepare 

The  holiest  rites  of  faith,  that  I  by  them 

Once  more  may  consecrate  my  sword,  my  life  ;  — 

But  what  are  these  ?     Who  hath  not  dearer  lives 

Twined  with  his  own  ?     I  shall  be  lonely  soon  — 

Childless  !  —  Heaven  wills  it  so.     Let  us  begone. 

Perchance  before  the  shrine  my  heart  may  beat 

With  a  less  troubled  motion. 

{Exeunt  GONZALEZ  and  HERNANDEZ. 


THE  SfEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  457 


SCENE  IV.— A  Tent  in  the  Moorish  Camp. 
ABDULLAH — ALPHONSO — CARLOS. 

AM.  These  are  bold  words :  but  hast  thou  looked  on  death, 
Fair  stripling? — On  thy  cheek  and  sunny  brow 
Scarce  fifteen  summers  of  their  laughing  course 
Have  left  light  traces.     If  thy  shaft  hath  pierced 
The  ibex  of  the  mountains,  if  thy  step 
Hath  climbed  some  eagle's  nest,  and  thou  hast  made 
Hjs  nest  thy  spoil,  'tis  much ! — And  fear'st  thou  not  , 
The  leader  of  the  mighty? 

Alph.  I  have  been 

Reared  amongst  fearless  men,  and  midst  the  rocks 
And  the  wild  hills,  whereon  my  fathers  fought 
And  won  their  battles.     There  are  glorious  tales 
Told  of  their  deeds,  and  I  have  learned  them  all. 
How  should  I  fear  thee,  Moor  ? 

Abd.  So,  thou  hast  seen 

Fields,  where  the  combat's  roar  hath  died  away 
Into  the  whispering  breeze,  and  where  wild  flowers 
Bloom  o'er  forgotten  graves  ! — But  knowest  thou  aught 
Of  those,  where  sword  from  crossing  sword  strikes  fire, 
And  leaders  are  borne  down,  and  rushing  steeds 
Trample  the  life  from  out  the  mighty  hearts 
That  ruled  the  storm  so  late  ? — Speak  not  of  death 
Till  thou  hast  looked  on  such. 

Alph.  I  was  not  born 

A  shepherd's  son,  to  dwell  with  pipe  arrd  crook, 
And  peasant  men,  amidst  the  lowly  vales ; 
Instead  of  ringing  clarions,  and  bright  spears, 
And  crested  knights !     I  am  of  princely  race ; 
And,  if  my  father  would  have  heard  my  suit, 
I  tell  thee,  infidel,  that  long  ere  now, 
I  should  have  seen  how  lances  meet,  and  swords 
Do  the  field's  work. 

Abd.  Boy  ! — knowest  thou  there  are  sights 

A  thousand  times  more  fearful  ?     Men  may  die 
Full  proudly  when  the  skies  and  mountains  ring 
To  battle-horn  and  tecbir.1     But  not  all 
"So  pass  away  in  glory.     There  are  those, 
Midst  the  dead  silence  of  pale  multitudes, 
Led  forth  in  fetters — dost  thou  mark  me,  boy? 
To  take  their  last  look  of  the  all -gladdening  sun, 
And  bow,  perchance,  the  stately  head  of  youth 
Unto  the  death  of  shame  !— Hadst  thou  seen  this— 

Alph.  (to  Carlos.)  Sweet  brother,  God  is  with  us;  fear  thou  not 
We  have  had  heroes  for  our  sires  : — this  man 
Should  not  behold  us  tremble. 

^</.  There  are  means 

To  tame  the  loftiest  natures.     Yet,  again 


1  Tecbir,  the  war-cry  of  the  Moors  and  Arabs. 


THE  SIEGE  6P  VALENCIA. 


I  ask  thee,  wilt  thou,  from  beneath  the  walls 
Sue  to  thy  sire  for  life  ?  —  or  wouldst  thou  die 
With  this  thy  brother  J 

Alph.  Moslem  !  —  on  the  hills, 

Around  my  father's  castle,  I  have  heard 
The  mountain-peasants,  as  they  dressed  the  vines, 
Or  drove  the  goats,  by  rock  and  torrent,  home, 
Singing  their  ancient  songs;  and  these  were  all 
Of  the  Cid  Campeador:  and  how  his  sword 
Tizona,  cleared  its  way  through  turbaned  hosts, 
And  captured  Afric's  king's,  and  how  he  won 
Valencia  from  the  Moor  —  I  will  not  shame 
The  blood  we  draw  from  him  ! 

(A  Moorish  soldier  enters.} 

Sol.  Valencia's  lord 

Sends  messengers,  my  chief. 

Abd.  Conduct  them  thither. 

[  The  soldier  goes  out  and  re-enters  with 
ELMINA,  disguised,  and  an  attendant. 

Car.  (springing  forward  to  the  attendant.)  Oh  !  take  me 

hence,  Diego  !  take  me  hence 
With  thee,  that  I  may  see  my  mother's  face 
At  morning  when  I  wake.     Here  dark-browed  men 
Frown  strangely,  with  tfieir  cruel  eyes,  upon  us. 
Take  me  with  thee,  for  thou  art  good  and  kind, 
And  well  I  know  thou  lovest  me,  my  Diego  ! 

Abd.  Peace,  boy!     What  tidings,  Christian,  from  thy  lord? 
Is  he  grown  humbler  ?  —  doth  he  set  the  lives 
Of  these  fair  nurselings  at  a  city's  worth  ? 

Alph.  (rushing  forward  impatiently.)     Say  not  he 

doth  !  —  Yet  wherefore  art  thou  here  ? 
If  it  be  so,  I  could  weep  burning  tears 
For  very  shame  !  if  this  can  be,  return  ! 
Tell  him,  of  all  his  wealth,  his  battle-spoils, 
I  will  but  ask  a  war-horse  and  a  sword, 
And  that  beside  him  in  the  mountain-chase, 
And  in  his  halls,  and  at  his  stately  feasts, 
My  place  shall  be  no  more  !  —  But,  no  !  —  I  wrong, 
I  wrong  my  father  !     Moor,  believe  it  not, 
He  is  a  champion  of  the  cross  and  Spain, 
Sprung  from  the  Cid  !  —  and  I,  too,  I  can  die 
As  a  warrior's  high-born  child  1 

Elm.  Alas,  alasl 

And  wouldst  thon  die,  thus  early  die,  fair  boy? 
What  hath  life  done  to  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  cast 
Its  flower  away,  in  very  scorn  of  heart, 
Ere  yet  the  blight  be  come  ? 

Alph.  That  voice  doth  sound 

Abd.   Stranger,  who  art  thou  ?  —  this  is  mockery  !  speak  ! 
Elm.  (throwing  off  a  mantle  and  helmet,  and  embracing 
her  sons.)  My  boys!  whom  I  have  reared  through 
many  hours 


THE  STEGE  OF  VALENCfA.  459 


Of  silent  joys  and  sorrows,  and  deep  thoughts 
Untold  and  unimagined ;  let  me  die 
With  you,  now  I  have  held  you  to  my  heart, 
And  seen  once  more  the  faces,  in  whose  light 
My  soul  hath  lived  for  years! 

Car.  Sweet  mother  !  now 

Thou  shalt  not  leave  us  more. 

Abd.  Enough  of  this ! 

Woman !  what  seekst  thou  here !     How  hast  thou  dared 
To  front  the  mighty  thus  amidst  his  hosts  ? 

Elm.  Thinkst  thou  there  dwells  no  courage  but  in  breasts 
That  set  their  mail  against  the  ringing  spears, 
When  helmets  are  struck  down  ?     Thou  little  knowst 
Of  nature's  marvels.    Chief,  my  heart  is  nerved 
To  make  its  way  through  things  which  warrior  men, 
Ay,  they  that  master  death  by  field  or  flood, 
Would  look  on,  ere  they  braved ! — I  have  no  thought. 
No  sense  of  fear !    Thou'rt  mighty !  but  a  soul 
Wound  up  like  mine  is  mightier,  in  the  power 
Of  that  one, feeling  poured  through  all  its  depths, 
Than  monarchs  with  their  hosts  !     Am  1  not  come 
To  die  with  these  my  children  ? 

Abd.  Doth  thy  faith 

Bid  thee  do  this,  fond  Christian"?    Hast  thou  not 
The  means  to  save  them  ? 

Elm.  I  have  pravers,  and  tears, 

And  agonies! — and  he,  my  God  ;  the  (Jod 
Whose  hand,  or  soon  or  late,  doth  find  its  hour 
To  bow  the  crested  head — hath  made  these  things 
Most  powerful  in  a  world  where  all  must  learn 
That  one  deep  language,  by  the  storm  called  forth         , 
From  the  bruised  reeds  of  earth !     For  thee,  perchance, 
Affliction's  chastening  lesson  hath  not  yet 
Been  laid  upon  thy  heart,  and  thou  mayst  love 
To  see  the  creatures,  by  its  might  brought  low, 
Humbled  before  thee.  \Skt  throws  herself  at  his  feet 

Conqueror,  I  can  kneel  I 
I,  that  drew  birth  from  princes,  bow  myself 
E'en  to  thy  feet !     Call  in  thy  chiefs,  thy  slaves, 
If  this  will  swell  thy  triumph,  to  behold 
The  blood  of  kings,  of  heroes,  thus  abased  ! 
Do  this,  but  spare  my  sons  ! 

Alph.  (attempting  to  raise  her.}  Thou  shouldst  not  kneel 
Unto  this  infidel !     Rise,  rise,  my  mother  I 
This  sight  doth  shame  our  house  ! 

Abd.  Thou  daring  boy  I 

They  that  in  arms  have  taught  thy  father's  land 
How  chains  are  worn,  shall  school  that  haughty  mica 
Unto  another  language. 

Elm.  Peace,  my  son  ! 

Have  pity  on  my  heart  I — Oh,  pardon,  chief  1 
He  is  of  noble  blood.     Hear,  hear  me  yet ! 


THE  STEGE  OF  VALEKCfA. 


Are  there  no  lives  through  which  the  shafts  of  Heaven 

May  reach  your  soul  ?     He  that  loves  aught  on  earth, 

Dares  far  too  much,  if  he  be  merciless ! 

Is  it  for  those,  whose  frail  mortality 

Must  one  day  strive  alone  with  Clod  and  death, 

To  shut  their  souls  against  the  appealing  voice 

Of  nature,  in  her  anguish  ? — warrior,  man, 

To  you,  too,  ay,  and  haply  with  your  hosts, 

By  thousands  and  ten  thousands  marshalled  round, 

And  your  strong  armor  on,  shall  come  that  stroke 

Which  the  lance  wards  not ! — where  shall  your  high  heart 

Find  refuge  then,  if  in  the  day  of  might 

Woe  hath  lain  prostrate,  bleeding  at  your  feet, 

And  you  have  pitied  not  ? 

Abd.  These  are  vain  words. 

Elm.  Have  you  no  children  ? — fear  you  not  to  bring 
The  lightning  on  their  heads  ?     In  your  own  land 
Doth  no  fond  mother,  from  the  tents  beneath 
Your  native  palms,  look  o'er  the  deserts  out, 
To  greet  your  homeward  step  ?     You  have  not  yet 
Forgot  so  utterly  her  patient  love  ; — 
For  is  not  woman's  in  all  climes  the  same  ? 
That  you  should  scorn  my  prayer ! — O  Heaven  !  his  eye 
Doth  wear  no  mercy ! 

Abd.  Then  it  mocks  you  not. 

I  have  swept  o'er  the  mountains  of  your  land, 
Leaving  my  traces,  as  the  visitings 
Of  storms  upon  them  !     Shall  I  now  be  stayed  ? 
Know,  unto  me  it  were  as  light  a  thing 
In  this  my  course,  to  quench  your  children's  lives, 
As,  journeying  through  a  forest,  to  break  off 
The  young  wild  branches  that  obstruct  the  way 
With  their  green  sprays  and  leaves. 

Elm.  Are  there  such  hearts 

Amongst  thy  works,  O  God  ? 

Abd.  Kneel  not  to  me. 

Kneel  to  your  lord !  on  his  resolves  doth  hang 
His  children's  doom.  He  may  be  lightly  won 
By  a  few  bursts  of  passionate  tears  and  words. 

Elm.  (rising  indignantly.)  Speak  not  of  nobie  men  ! — 

He  bears  a  soul 
Stronger  than  love  or  death. 

Alph.  (with  exultation.)  I  knew  'twas  thus ! 
He  could  not  fail ! 

Elm.  There  is  no  mercy,  none, 

On  this  cold  earth! — To  strive  with  six h  a  world, 
Hearts  should  be  void  of  love ! — We  will  go  hence, 
My  children  !  we  are  summoned.     Lay  your  heads, 
In  their  young  radiant  beauty,  once  again 
To  rest  upon  this  bosom.     He  that  dwells 
Beyond  the  clouds  which  press  us  darkly  round, 
Will  yet  have  pity,  and_bct'ore  jus  face 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  461 

We  three  will  stand  together  !     Moslem !  now 
Let  the  stroke  fall  at  once  ! 

Al>ci.  Tis  thine  own  will. 

These  might  e'en  yet  be  spared. 

Elm.  Thou  wilt  not  spare  I 

And  he  beneath  whose  eye  their  childhood  grew, 
And  in  whose  paths  they  sported,  and  whose  ear 
From  their  first  lisping  accents  caught  the  sound 
Of  that  word — Father — once  a  name  of  love — 
Is Men  shall  call  him  steadfast. 

AM.  Hath  the  blast 

Of  sudden  trumpets  ne'er  at  dead  of  night, 
When  the  land's  watchers  feared  no  hostile  step, 
Startled  the  slumberers  from  their  dreamy  world, 
In  cities,  whose  heroic  lords  have  been 
Steadfast  as  thine  ? 

Elm.  There's  meaning  in  thine  eye, 

More  than  thy  words. 

AM.  (pointing  to  the  city).  Look  to  yon  towers  and  walls  I 
Think  you  no  hearts  within  their  limits  pine, 
Weary  of  hopeless  warfare,  and  prepared 
To  burst  the  feeble  links  which  bind  them  still 
Unto  endurance  ? 

Elm.  Thou  hast  said  too  well. 

But  what  of  this  ? 

Abd.  Then  there  are  those,  to  whom 

The  prophet's  armies  not  as  foes  would  pass 
Yon  gates,  but  as  deliverers.     Might  they  not 
In  some  still  hour,  when  weariness  takes  rest, 
Be  won  to  welcome  us  ?     Your  children's  steps 
May  yet  bound  lightly  through  their  father's  halls  1 

Alph.  (indignantly).  Thou  treacherous  Moor ! 

Elm.  Let  me  not  thus  be  tried 

Beyond  all  strength,  oh,  Heaven  ! 

Abd.  Now.  'tis  for  thee, 

Thou  Christian  mother  !  on  thy  sons  to  pass 
The  sentence — life  or  death  ! — the  price  is  set 
On  their  young  blood,  and  rests  within  thy  hands. 

Alfh.  Mother !  thou  tremblest ! 

Abd.  Hath  thy  heart  resolved  ? 

Elm    (covering  her  face  u>ith  her  hands).  My  boy's  proud  eye  is 

on  me,  and  the  things 

Which  rush  in  stormy  darkness  through  my  soul, 
Shrink  from  his  glance.     I  cannot  answer  here. 

Abd.  Come  forth.     We'll  commune  elsewhere. 

Car.  (to  his  mother).  Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Oh  !  let  me  follow  thee  ! 

Elm.  Mine  own  fair  child! 

Now  that  thine  eyes  have  poured  once  more  on  mine 
The  light  of  their  young  smile,  and  thy  sweet  voice 
Hath  sent  its  gentle  music  through  my  soul, 


THE  STEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


And  I  have  felt  the  twining  of  thine  arms  — 
How  shall  I  leave  thee  ? 

Abd.  Leave  him  as  'twere  but 

For  a  brief  slumber,  to  behold  his  face 
At  morning,  with  the  sun's. 

Alph.  Thou  hast  no  look 

For  me,  my  mother  ! 

Elm.  Oh  1  that  I  should  live 

To  say,  I  dare  not  look  on  thee  !  —  Farewell, 
My  first-born,  fare  thee  well  ! 

Alph.       •  Yet,  yet  beware  ! 

It  were  a  grief  more  heavy  on  thy  soul, 
That  I  should  blush  for  thee,  than  o'er  my  grave 
That  thou  shouldst  proudly  weep  ! 

Abd.  Away  !  we  trifle  here.     The  night  wanes  fast. 
Come  forth  ! 

Elm.  Once  more  embrace  !     My  sons,  farewell  ! 

[Exeunt  ABDULLAH  with  ELMINA  and  her  attendant 

Alph.  Hear  me  yet  once,  my  mother  !  —  Art  thou  gone  ? 
But  one  word  more  !  [ffe  rushes  out,  foil  owed  by  CARLOS' 

SCENE  V.  —  T7ie  Garden  of  a  Palace  in  Valencia, 
XIMENA,  THERESA. 

Ther.  Stay  yet  awhile.     A  purer  air  doth  rove 
Here  through  the  myrtles  whispering,  and  the  limes, 
And  shaking  sweetness  from  the  orange-boughs, 
Than  waits  you  in  the  city. 

Xim.  There  are  those 

In  their  last  need,  and  on  their  bed  of  death, 
At  which  no  hand  doth  minister  but  mine, 
That  wait  me  in  the  city.     Let  us  hence. 

Ther.  You  have  been  wont  to  love  the  music  made 
By  founts,  and  rustling  foliage,  and  soft  winds, 
Breathing  of  citron-groves.     And  will  you  turn 
From  these  to  scenes  of  death  ? 

Xim.  To  me  the  voice 

Of  summer,  whispering  through  young  flowers  and  leaves, 
Now  speaks  too  deep  a  language  1  and  of  all 
Its  dreamy  and  mysterious  melodies, 
The  breathing  soul  is  sadness  !     I  have  felt 
That  summons  through  my  spirit,  after  which 
The  hues  of  earth  are  changed,  and  all  her  sounds 
Seem  fraught  •with  secret  warnings.  —  There  is  cause 
That  I  should  bend  my  footsteps  to  the  scenes 
Where  Death  is  busy,  taming  warrior  hearts 
And  pouring  winter  through  the  fiery  blood, 
And  fettering  the  strong  arm  !     For  now  no  sigh 
In  the  dull  air,  nor  floating  cloud  in  heaven, 
Ho,  not  the  lightest  murmur  of  a  leaf, 
But  of  his  angel's  silent  coming  bean 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  463 

Some  token  to  my  soul. — But  nought  of  this 
Unto  my  mother  !     These  are  awful  hours  ! 
And  on  their  heavy  steps  afflictions  crowd 
With  such  dark  pressure,  there  is  left  no  room 
For  one  grief  more. 

Ther.  Sweet  lady,  talk  not  thus ! 

Your  eye  this  morn  doth  wear  a  calmer  light, 
There's  more  of  life  in  its  clear  tremulous  ray 
Than  I  have  marked  of  late.     Nay,  go  not  yet ; 
Rest  by  this  fountain,  where  the  laurels  dipm 
Their  glossy  leaves.     A  fresher  gale  doth  spring 
From  the  transparent  waters,  dashing  round 
Their  silvery  spray,  with  a  sweet  voice  of  coolness, 
O'er  the  pale  glistening  marble.     'Twill  call  up 
Faint  bloom,  if  but  a  moment's,  to  your  cheek. 
Rest  here,  ere  you  go  forth,  and  I  will  sing 
The  melody  you  love. 


(THERESA  sings.) 

Why  is  the  Spanish  maiden's  grave 
So  far  from  her  own  bright  land? 

The  sunny  flowers  that  o'er  it  wave 
Were  sown  by  no  kindred  hand. 

Tis  not  the  orange-bough  that  sends 

Its  breath  on  the  sultry  air, 
Tis  not  the  myrtle-stem  that  bends 

To  the  breeze  of  evening  there  ! 

But  the  rose  of  Sharon's  eastern  bloom 

By  the  silent  dwelling  fades, 
And  none  but  strangers  pass  the  tomb 

Which  the  palm  of  Judah  shades. 

The  lowly  Cross,  with  flowers  o'ei grown, 
Marks  well  that  place  of  rest ; 

But  who  hath  graved,  on  its  mossy  stone. 
A  sword,  a  helm,  a  crest  ? 

These  are  the  trophies  of  a  chief, 
lord  of  the  axe  and  spear ! 


£\.    IUIU    Ul    lilt    AA\,    «»     *    vjr*v»»    • 

Some  blossom  plucked,  some  faded  leal. 
Should  grace  a  maiden's  bier ! 

Scorn  not  her  tomb — deny  not  her 

The  honors  of  the  brave ! 
O'er  that  forsaken  sepulchre, 

Banner  and  plume,  might  wave. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


She  bound  the  steel,  in  battle  tried, 

Her  fearless  heart  above, 
And  stood  with  brave  men,  side  by  side, 

In  the  strength  and  faith  of  love  ! 

That  strength  prevailed — that  faith  was  blessed  * 

True  was  the  javelin  thrown, 
Yet  pierced  it  not  her  warrior's  breast : 

She  met  it  with  her  own ! 

And  nobly  won,  where  heroes  fell 

In  arms  for  the  holy  shrine, 
A  death  which  saved  what  she  loved  so  well, 

And  a  grave  in  Palestine. 

Then  let  the  rose  of  Sharon  spread 

Its  breast  to  the  glowing  air, 
And  the  palm  of  Judah  lift  its  head, 

Green  and  immortal  there  ! 

And  let  von  gray  stone,  undefaced, 

With  Us  trophy  mark  the  scene, 
Telling  the  pilgrim  of  the  waste, 

Where  Love  and  Death  have  been. 

Xim.    Those  notes  were  wont  to  make  my  heart  beat 

quick, 

As  at  a  voice  of  victory  ;  but  to-day 
The  spirit  of  the  song  is  changed,  and  seems 
All  mournful.     Oh !  that,  ere  my  early  grave 
Shuts  out  the  sunbeam,  I  might  hear  one  peal 
Of  the  Castilian  trumpet,  ringing  forth 
Beneath  my  father's  banner !     In  that  sound 
Were  life  to  you,  sweet  brothers  !     But  for  me — 
Come  on — our  tasks  await  us.     They  who  know 
Their  hours  are  numbered  out,  have  little  time 
To  give  the  vague  and  slumberous  languor  way, 
Which  doth  steal  o'er  them  in  the  breath  of  flowers, 
And  whisper  of  soft  winds. 

(ELMINA  enters  hurriedly}. 

Elm.  The  air  will  calm  my  spirit,  ere  yet  I  mcel 

His  eye,  which  must  be  met.     Thou  here,  Xirnena ! 

\She  starts  back  on  seeing  XlMENA. 

Xim.     Alas  !  my  mother  !     In  that  hurrying  step 
And  troubled  glance  I  read 

Elm.    (wildly}-  Thou  readest  it  not  1 

Why,  who  would  live,  if  unto  mortal  eye 
The  things  lay  glaring,  which  within  our  hearts 
We  treasure  up  for  God's  ?     Thou  readest  it  not ! 
I  say,  thou  canst  not !     There's  not  one  on  earth 
Shall  know  the  thoughts,  which  for  themselves  have  made 
And  kept  dark  places  in  the  very  breast 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Whereon  he  hath  laid  his  slumber,  till  the  hour 
When  the  graves  open  ? 

Xim.  Mother  !  what  is  this  ? 

Alas  !  your  eye  is  wandering,  and  your  cheek 
Flushed,  as  with  fever !     To  your  woes  the  night 
Hath  brought  no  rest. 

Elm.  Rest ! — who  should  rest  ? — not  he 

That  holds  one  earthly  blessing  to  his  heart 
Nearer  than  life  !     No  !  if  this  world  have  aught 
Of  bright  or  precious,  let  not  him  who  calls 
Such  things  his  own,  take  rest !     Dark  spirits  keep  watch, 
And  they  to  whom  fair  honor,  chivalrous  fame, 
Were  as  heaven's  air,  the  vital  element 
Wherein  they  breathed,  may  wake,  and  find  their  souls 
Made  marks  for  human  scorn  !     Will  they  bear  on 
With  life  struck  down,  and  thus  disrobed  of  all 
Its  glorious  drapery  ? — Who  shall  tell  us  this  ? — 
Will  Aesu  bear  it?' 

Xim.  Mother  !  let  us  kneel 

And  blend  our  hearts  in  prayer  ! — What  else  is  left 
To  mortals  when  the  dark  hour's  might  is  on  them  ? 
— Leave  us,  Theresa.     Grief  like  this  doth  find 
Its  balm  in  solitude. 

My  mother !  peace 

Is  heaven's  benignant  answer  to  the  cry 
Of  wounded  spirits.     Wilt  tliou  kneel  with  me  ? 

Elm    Away  !  'tis  but  for  souls  unstained,  to  wear 
Heaven's  tranquil  image  on  their  depths. — The  stream 
Of  my  dark  thoughts,  all  broken  by  the  storm, 
Reflects  but  clouds  and  lightnings  1     Didst  thou  speak 
Of  peace  ? — 'tis  fled  from  earth  ! — but  there  is  joy  ! 
Wild,  troubled  joy  !     And  who  shall  know,  my  child  1 
It  is  not  happiness  ? — Why,  our  own  hearts 
Will  keep  the  secret  close  !     Joy,  joy  !*if  but 
To  leave  this  desolate  city,  with  its  dull 
Low  knells  and  dirges,  and  to  breathe  again 
The  untainted  mountain  air  ! — But  hush  !  the  trees, 
The  flowers,  the  waters,  must  hear  naught  of  this  ! 

They  are  full  of  voices,  and  will  whisper  things 

— We'll  speak  of  it  no  more. . 

Xim.  '  Oh  !  pitying  Heaven  ! 

This  grief  doth  shake  her  reason  ! 

Elm.  (starting.  Hark!  a  step  I 

Tis — 'tis  thy  father's  ! — come  away — not  now-r- 
He  must  not  see  us  now  ! 

Xim,  Why  should  this  be  ? 

(GONZALEZ  enters,  and  detains  ELMINA.) 

Gon.  Elmina,  dost  thou  shun  me  ?     Have  we  not, 
E'en  from  the  hopeful  and  the  sunny  time 
When  youth  was  as  a  glory  round  our  brows, 


466  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Held  on  through  life  together  ?     And  is  this, 
When  eve  is  gathering  round  us,  with  the  gloom 
Of  stormy  cloudsv  a  time  to  part  our  steps 
Upon  the  darkening  wild  ? 

Elm.  (coldly).  There  needs  not  this 

Why  shouldst  thou  think  I  shunned  thee  ? 

Con.  Should  the  love 

That  shone  o'er  many  years,  the  unfading  love, 
"Whose  only  change  hath  been  from  gladdening  smiles 
To  mingling  sorrows  and  sustaining  strength, 
Thus  lightly  be  forgotten  ? 

Elm.  Speakest  thou  thus  ? 

— I  have  knelt  before  thee  with  that  very  plea, 
When  it  availed  me  not !— But  there  are  things 
Whose  very  breathings  from  the  soul  erase 
All  record  of  past  love,  save  the  chill  sense, 
The  unquiet  memory  of  its  wasted  faith, 
And  vain  devotedness  ! — Ay !  they  that  fix 
Affection's  perfect  trust  on  aught  of  earth, 
Have  many  a  dream  to  start  from! 

Con.  This  is  but 

The  wildness  and  the  bitterness  of  grief, 
Ere  yet  the  unsettled  heart  hath  closed  its  long 
Impatient  conflicts  with  a  mightier  power, 
Which  makes  all  conflict  vain. 

Hark  !  was  there  not 
A  sound  of  distant  trumpets,  far  beyond 
The  Moorish  tents,  and  of  another  tone 
Than  the  Afric  horn,  Ximena  ? 

Xim.  Oh,  my  father: 

I  know  that  horn  too  well.     'Tis  but  the  wind, 
Which,  with  a  sudden  rising,  bears  its  deep 
And  savage  war  note  from  us,  wafting  it 
O'er  the  far  hills.    ' 

Gon.  Alas  !  this  woe  must  be  I 

I  do  not  shake  my  spirit  from  its  height, 
So  startling  it  with  hope  !     But  the  dread  hour 
Shall  be  met  bravely  still.     I  can  keep  down 
Yet  for  a  little  while — and  Heaven  will  ask 
No  more — the  passionate  workings  of  my  heart — 
And  thine — Elmina  ? 

Elm.  'Tis — I  am  prepared. 

I  have  prepared  for  all. 

Gon.  Oh,  well  I  knew 

Thou  woulclst  not  fail  me !     Not  in  vain  my  soul, 
Upon  thy  faith  and  courage,  hath  built  up 
Unshaken  trust. 

Elm.  (wildly).     Away!  thou  knowest  me  not! 
Man  dares  too  far,  his  rashness  would  invest 
This  our  mortality  with  an  attribute 
Too  high"  and  awful,  boasting  that  he  knows 
One  human  heart ! 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  467 


Gon.  These  are  wild  words,  but  yet 

I  will  not  doubt  thee ! — Hast  thou  not  been  found 
Noble  in  all  things,  pouring  thy  soul's  light 
Undimmed  o'er  every  trial  ?     And,  as  our  fates 
So  must  our  names  be,  undivided !     Thine, 
In  the  record  of  a  warrior's  life,  shall  find 
Its  place  of  stainless  honor.     By  his  side — 

Elm.     May  this  be  borne  ? — How  much  of  agony 
Hath  the  heart  room  for  ?     Speak  to  me  in  wrath 
— I  can  endure  it !     But  no  gentle  words ! 
No  words  of  love  1  no  praise !     Thy  sword  might  slay 
And  be  more  merciful  ! 

Gin.  Wherefore  art  thou  thus  ? 

Elmina,  my  beloved ! 

Elm.  No  more  of  love! 

Have  I  not  said  there's  that  within  my  heart, 
Whereon  it  falls  as  living  fire  would  fall 
Upon  an  unclosed  wound  ? 

Gon.  Nay,  lift  thine  eyes, 

That  I  may  read  their  meaning  ! 

Elm.  Never  more 

With  a  free  soul — What  have  I  said  ? — 'twas  naught 
Take  thou  no  heed  !     The  words  of  wretchedness 
Admit  not  scrutiny.     Wouldst  thou  mark  the  speech 
Of  troubled  dreams  ? 

Gon.  I  have  seen  tljee  in  the  hour 

Of  thy  deep  spirit's  joy,  and  when  the  breath 
Of  grief  hung  chilling  round  thee ;  in  all  change. 
Bright  health  and  drooping  sickness;  hope  and  fear; 
Youth  and  decline  ;  but  never  yet,  Elmina, 
Ne'er  hath  thine  eye  till  now  shrunk  back  perturbed 
With  shame  or  dread,  from  mine  ! 

Elm.  Thy  glance  doth  search 

A  wounded  heart  too  deeply. 

Gon.  Hast  thou  there 

Aught  to  conceal  ? 

Elm.  Who  hath  not? 

Gon.  Till  this  hour 

Thou  never  hadst ! — Yet  hear  me  ! — by  the  free 
And  unattainted  fame  which  wraps  the  dust 
Of  thine  heroic  fathers — 

Elm.  This  to  me  !— 

Bring  your  inspiring  war-notes,  and  your  sounds 
Of  festal  music  round  a  dying  man  ! 
Will  his  heart  echo  them? — But  if  thy  worck 
Were  spells,  to  call  up,  with  each  lofty  tone, 
The  grave's  most  awful  spirits,  they  would  stand 
Powerless,  before  my  anguish  ! 

Gon.  Then,  bv  her, 

Who  there  looks  on  thee  in  the  purity 
Of  her  devoted  youth,  and  o'er  whose  name 
No  blight  must  fall,  and  whose  pale  cheek  must  ne'er 


468  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALEXCIA. 

Burn  with  that  deeper  tinge,  caught  painfully 
From  the  quick  feeling  of  dishonor. — Speak ! 
Unfold  this  mystery  ' — By  thy  sons — 

Elm.  My  sons  1 

And  canst  thou  name  them  ? 

Con.  Proudly  !— Better  far 

They  died  with  all  the  promise  of  their  youth, 
And  the  fair  honor  of  their  house  upon  them, 
Than  that,  with  manhood's  high  and  passionate  soul, 
To  fearful  strength  unfolded,  they  should  live 
Barred  from  the  lists  of  crested  chivalry, 
And  pining,  in  the  silence  of  a- woe, 
Which  from  the  heart  shuts  daylight — o'er  the  shame 
Of  those  who  gave  them  birth ! — but  thou  couldst  ne'er 
Forget  their  lofty  claims ! 

Elm.  (wildly).  T was  but  for  them ! 

Twas  for  them  only  ! — Who  shall  dare  arraign 
Madness  of  crime  ?     And  He  who  made  us  knows 
There  are  dark  moments  of  all  hearts  and  lives, 
Which  bear  down  reason  I 

Gon.  Thou,  whom  I  have  loved 

With  such  high  trust  as  o'er  our  nature  threw 
A  glory  scarce  allowed  ; — what  hast  thou  done  ? — 
Ximena,  go  thou  hence ! 

Elm.  No,  no !  my  child ! 

There's  pity  in  thy  took  !     All  other  eyes 
Are  full  of  wrath  and  scorn  !— Oh  !  leave  me  not ! 

Gon.    That  I  should  live  to  see  thee  thus  abased ! 
— Yet  speak  ! — what  hast  thou  done  ? 

Elm.  Look  to  the  gate  ! 

Thou'rt  worn  with  toil — but  take  no  rest  to-night ! 
The  western  gate  ! — Its  watchers  have  been  won — 
The  Christian  city  hath  been  bought  and  sold  ! — 
They  will  admit  the  Moor  ! 

Gon.  They  have  been  won  ! 

Brave  men  and  tried  so  long  ! — Whose  work  was  this  ? 

Elm,    Thinkest  thou  all  hearts  like  thine  ? — Can  mothers  stand 
To  see  their  children  perish  ? 

Gon.  Then  the  guilt 

Was  thine  ? 

Elm  Shall  mortal  dare  to  call  it  guilt  ? 

I  tell  thee,  Heaven,  which  made  all  holy  things, 
Made  naught  more  holy  than  the  boundless  love 
Which  fills  a  mother's  heart ! — I  say,  'tis  woe 
Enough,  with  such  an  aching  tenderness, 
To  love  aught  earthly  ! — and  in  vain  !  in  vain! 
~-We  are  pressed  down  too  sorely ! 

Gon.  (in  a  low  desponding  ~-oi(e).     Now  my  life 
Is  struck  to  worthless  ashes  ! — In  my  soul 
Suspicion  hath  taken  root.     The  nobleness 
Kenceforth  is  blotted  from  all  human  brows  ; 
And  fearful  power,  a  dark  and  troublous  gift, 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  469 


Almost  like  prophecy,  is  poured  upon  me, 
To  read  the  guilty  secrets  in  each  eye 
That  once  looked  bright  with  truth! 

—Why,  then,  I  have  gained 

\V  hat  men  call  wisdom  !— A  new  sense,  to  which 
All  tales  that  speak  of  high  fidelity, 
And  holy  courage,  and  proud  honor,  tried. 
Searched,  and  found  steadfast,  even  to  martyrdom, 
Are  food  for  mockery !    Why  should  I  not  cast 
From  my  thinned  locks  the  wearing  helm  at  once. 
And  in  the  heavy  sickness  of  my  soul 
Throw  the  sword  down  forever  ?    Is  there  aught 
In  all  this  world  of  gilded  hollowness, 
Now  the  bright  hues  drop  off  its  loveliest  things, 
Worth  striving  for  again  ? 

Xim.  Father !  look  up ! 

Turn  unto  me,  thy  child  ! 

Con.  Thy  face  is  fair  ! 

And  hath  been  unto  me,  in  other  days, 
As  morning  to  the  journeyer  of  the  deep  ; 
But  now — 'tis  too  like  hers! 

Elm.    (falling  at  his  feet).     Woe,  shame  and  woe, 
Are  on  me  in  their  might ! — forgive,  forgive  ! 

Gon.    (star ting  up).     Doth  the  Moor  deem  that  /nav»*nrtf 

or  share, 

Or  counsel  in  this  vileness  ?    Stay  me  not ! 
Let  go  thy  hold — 'tis  powerless  on  me  now — 

linger  here,  while  treason  is  at  workl  [Exit  GONZAUZ. 

Elm.     Ximena,  dost  thou  scorn  me  ? 

Xim.  I  have  found 

In  mine  own  heart  too  much  of  feebleness, 
Hid,  beneath  many  foldings,  from  all  eyes 
But  His  whom  naught  can  blind,  to  dare  do  aught 
But  pity  thee,  dear  mother  I 

Elm.  Blessings  light 

On  thy  fair  head,  my  gentle  child,  for  this! 
Thou  kind  and  merciful ! — My  soul  is  faint — 
Worn  with  long  strife  !    Is  there  aught  else  to  do, 
Or  suffer,  ere  we  die  ?    O  God !  my  sons  ! — 
I  have  betrayed  them  !    All  their  innocent  blood 
Is  on  my  soul ! 

Xim.  How  shall  I  comfort  thee  ? 

— Oh  !  hark !  what  sounds  come  deepening  on  the  wind, 
So  full  of  solemn  hope  ! 

(A  profession  of  Nuns  passes  across  the  Scene,  bearing  relict 
and  chanting). 


TffE  STEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


CHANT. 

A  sword  is  on  the  land  ! 

He  that  bears  down  young  tree  and  glorious  flower, 
Death  is  gone  forth,  he  walks  the  wind  in  power  1 

Where  is  the  warrior's  hand  ? 
Our  steps  are  in  the  shadows  of  the  grave, 
Hear  us,  we  perish  1    Father,  hear  and  save ! 

If,  in  the  days  of  song, 

The  days  of  gladness,  we  have  called  on  Thee, 
When  mirthful  voices  rang  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  joyous  hearts  were  strong  ; 
Now  that  alike  the  feeble  and  the  brave 
Must  cry,  "  We  perish !  " — Father,  hear  and  save ! 

The  days  of  song  are  fled ! 
The  winds  come  loaded,  wafting  dirge-notes  by, 
But  they  that  linger  soon  unmourned  must  die  ;— 

The  dead  weep  not  the  dead ! — 
Wilt  thou  forsake  us  'midst  the  stormy  wave  ? 
We  sink,  we  perish  ! — Father,  hear  and  save ! 

Helmet  and  lance  are  dust ! 
Is  not  the  strong  man  withered  from  our  eye  ? 
The  arm  struck  down  that  held  our  banners  high  ?— 

Thine  is  our  spirits'  trust ! 

Look  through  the  gathering  shadows,  of  the  grave  ! 
Do  we  not  perish  ? — Father,  hear  and  save  ! 

(HERNANDEZ  enters.) 

Elm.    Why  comest  thou,  man  of  vengeance  ?    What 

have  I 

To  do  with  thee  ?    Am  I  not  bowed  enough  ? — 
Thou  art  no  mourner's  comforter  ! 

Her.  Thy  lord 

Hath  sent  me  unto  thee.     Till  this  day's  task 
Be  closed,  thou  daughter  of  the  feeble  heart ! 
He  bids  thee  seek  him  not,  but  lay  thy  ways 
Before  Heaven's  altar,  and  in  penitence 
Make  thy  soul's  peace  with  God. 

Elm.  . Till  this  day's  task 

Be  closed  ! — there  is  strange  triumph  in  thine  eyes—- 
Is it  that  I  have  fallen  from  that  high  place 
Whereon  I  stood  in  fame  ? — But  I  can  feel 
A  wild  and  bitter  pride  in  thus  being  past 
The  power  of  thy  dark  glance  !    My  spirit  now 
Is  wound  about  by  one  sole  mighty  grief ; 
Thy  scorn  hath  lost  its  sting.     Thou  mayest  reproach— 

Her.   I  come  not  to  reproach  thee.     Heaven  doth  work 
By  many  agencies ;  and  in  its  hour 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALEMCtA.  47 1 

There  is  no  insect  which  the  summer  breeze 

From  the  green  leaf  shakes  trembling,  but  may  serve 

Its  deep  unsearchable  purposes,  as  well 

As  the  great  ocean,  or  the  eternal  fires 

Pent  in  earth's  caves  I    Thou  hast  but  speeded  that, 

Which,  in  the  infatuate  blindness  of  thy  heart, 

Thou  wouldst  have  trampled  o'er  all  holy  ties 

But  to  avert  one  day  ! 

Elm.  My  senses  fail— 

Thou  saidst — speak  yet  again — I  could  not  catch 
The  meaning  of  thy  words. 

Her.  E'en  now  thv  lord 

Hath  sent  our  foes  defiance.     On  the  walls 
He  stands  in  conference  with  the  boastful  Moor, 
And  awful  strength  is  with  him      Through  the  blood 
Which  this  day  must  be  poured  in  sacrifice 
Shall  Spain  be  free.     On  all  her  olive-hills 
Shall  men  set  up  the  battle-sign  of  fire, 
And  round  its  blaze,  at  midnight,  keep  the  sense 
Of  vengeance  wakeful  in  each  other's  hearts 
E'en  with  thy  children's  tale  ! 

Xim.  Peace,  father !  peace  I 

Behold  she  sinks  ! — the  storm  hath  done  its  work 
Upon  the  broken  reed.     Oh  !  lend  thine  aid 
To  bear  her  hence.  [  They  lead  her  away. 

SCENE  VI. — A  Street  in  Valencia.  Several  Groups  of  Citizens  and  Soldiers\ 
many  of  them  lying  on  the  steps  of  a  church.  Arms  scattered  on  the  ground 
around  them. 

An  Old  Cit.    The  air  is  sultry,  as  with  thunder-clouds. 
I  left  my  desolate  home,  that  I  might  breathe 
More  freely  in  Heaven's  face,  but  my  heart  feels 
With  this  hot  gloom  o'erburdened.     I  have  now 
No  sons  to  tend  me.     Which  of  you,  kind  friends, 
Will  bring  the  old  man  water  from  the  fount, 
To  moisten  his  parched  lip  ?  [A  citizen  goes  out. 

zd  Cit.  This  wasting  siege, 

Good  Father  Lopez,  hath  gone  hard  with  you  ! 
'Tis  sad  to  hear  no  voices  through  the  house, 
Once  peopled  with  fair  sons  ! 

3</  Cit.  Why,  better  thus, 

Than  to  be  haunted  with  their  famished  cries, 
E'en  in  your  very  dreams  ! 

Old  Cit.  Heaven's  will  be  done  ! 

'  These  are  dark  times  !     I  have  not  been  alone 
In  my  affliction. 

3d  Cit.  (with  bitterness}.     Why,  we  have  but  this  thought 
Left  for  our  gloomy  comfort ! — And  'tis  well ! 
Ay,  let  the  balance  be  awhile  struck  even 
Between  the  noble's  palace  and  the  hut, 
Where  the  worn  peasant  sickens  I — They  that  bear 


472  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


The  humble  dead  unhonored  to  their  homes, 
Pass  now  i'  the  streets  no  lordly  bridal  train 
With  its  exulting  music ;  and  the  wretch 
Who  on  the  marble  steps  of  some  proud  hall 
Flings  himself  down  to  die,  in  his  last  need 
And  agony  of  famine,  doth  behold 
No  scornful  guests,  with  their  long  purple  robes, 
To  the  banquet  sweeping  by.     Why,  this  is  just! 
These  are  the  days  when  pomp  is  made  to  feel 
Its  human  mould ! 

4/>4  Cit.  Heard  you  last  night  the  sound 

Of  Saint  lago's  bell  ? — How  sullenly 
From  the  great  tower  it  pealed  ! 

5/-4  Cit.  Ay,  and  'tis  said 

No  mortal  hand  was  near  when  so  it  seemed 
To  shake  the  midnight  streets. 

Old  Cit.  Too  well  I  know 

The  sound  of  coming  fate ! — 'Tis  ever  thus 
When  Death  is  on  his  way  to  make  it  night 
In  the  Cid's  ancient  house. — Oh  !  there  are  things 
In  this  strange  world  of  which  we've  all  to  learn 
When  its  dark  bounds  are  passed.     Yon  bell,  untouched 
(Save  by  the  hands  we  see  not),  still  doth  speak — 
When  of  that  line  some  stately  head  is  marked — 
With  a  wild  hollow  peal,  at  dead  of  night, 
Rocking  Valencia's  towers.     I've  heard  it  oft, 
Nor  known  its  warning  false. 

ifh  Cit.  And  will  our  chief 

Buy  with  the  price  of  his  fair  children's  blood 
A  few  more  days  of  pining  wretchedness 
For  this  forsaken  city  ? 

Old  Cit.  Doubt  it  not  ! — 

But  with  that  ransom  he  may  purchase  still 
Deliverance  for  the  land  !     And  yet  'tis  sad 
To  think  that  such  a  race,  with  all  its  fame, 
Should  pass  away !     For  she,  his  daughter  too, 
Moves  upon  earth  as  some  bright  thing  whose  time 
To  sojourn  there  is  short. 

5//4  Cit.  Then  woe  for  us 

When  she  is  gone  !     Her  voice — the  very  sound 
Of  her  soft  step  was  comfort,  as  she  moved 
Through  the  still  house  of  mourning  !     Who  like  her 
Shall  give  us  hope  again  ? 

Old  Cit.  Be  still !— she  comes, 

And  with  a  mien  how  changed  ! — A  hurrying  step, 
And  a  flushed  cheek  ! — What  may  this  bode  ? — Be  still! 

(XlMENA  enters,  with  Attendants  carrying  a  banner). 

Xim.  Men  of  Valencia !  in  an  hour  like  this, 
What  do  ye  here  ? 

A  Cit.  We  die  1 

Xim.  Brave  men  die  now 


TffE  S7ECE  OF  VALENCIA.  473 

Girt  for  the  toil,  as  travellers  suddenly 

By  the  dark  night  o'ertaken  on  their  way  ' 

These  days  require  such  death  !     It  is  too  much 

Of  luxury  for  our  wild  an  angry  times. 

To  fold  the  mantle  round  us,  and  to  sink 

From  life,  as  flowers  that  shut  up  silently, 

When  the  sun's  heat  doth  scorch  them!     Hear  ye  not  ? 

A  Cit   Lady  !  what  wouldst  thou  with  us  ? 

x"»-  Rise  and  arm  1 

E'en  now  the  children  of  your  chief  are  led 
Forth  by  the  Moor  to  perish  .'—Shall  this  be. 
Shall  the  high  sound  of  such  a  name  be  hushed 
I'  the  land  to  which  for  ages  it  hath  been 
A  battle-word  as  'twere  some  passing  note 
Of  shepherd-music  ?    Must  this  work  be  done, 
And  ye  lie  pining  here,  as  men  in  whom 
The  pulse  which  God  hath  made  for  noble  thought 
Can  so  be  thrilled  no  longer  ? 

at.  'Tis  e'en  so ! 

Sickness,  and  toil,  and  grief,  have  breathed  upon  us. 
Our  hearts  beat  faint  and  low. 

Xim.  Are  ye  so  poor 

Of  soul,  my  countrymen  !  that  ye  can  draw 
Strength  from  no  deeper  source  than  that  which  sends 
The  red  blood  mantling  through  the  joyous  veins, 
And  gives  the  fleet  step  wings .' — Why,  how  have  age 
And  sensitive  womanhood  ere  now  endured. 
Through  pangs  of  searching  fire,  in  some  proud  cause, 
Blessing  that  agony?     Think  ye  the  Power 
Which  bore  them  nobly  up,  as  if  to  teach 
The  torturer  where  eternal  Heaven  had  set 
Bounds  to  his  sway,  was  earthly,  of  this  earth — 
This  dull  mortality  ! — Nay,  then  look  on  me  1 
Death's  touch  hath  marked  me,  and  I  stand  amongst  you, 
As  one  whose  place,  i'  the  sunshine  of  your  world. 
Shall  soon  be  left  to  fill !     I  say,  the  breath 
Of  the  incense,  floating  through  yon  fane,  shall  scarce 
Pass  from  your  path  before  me  !     But  even  now, 
I've  that  within  me,  kindling  through  the  dust, 
Which  from  all  time  hath  made  high  deeds  its  voice 
And  token  to  the  nations  ; — Look  on  me ! 
Why  hath  Heaven  poured  forth  courage  as  a  flame 
Wasting  the  womanish  heart,  which  must  be  stilled 
Yet  sooner  for  its  swift  consuming  brightness, 
If  not  to  shame  your  doubt,  and  your  despair. 
And  your  soul's  torpor  ? — Yet,  arise  and  arm ! 
It  may  not  be  too  late. 

A  at.  Why,  what  are  we, 

To  cope  with  hosts? — Thus  faint,  and  worn,  and  few, 
O'ernumbered  and  forsaken,  is't  for  us 
To  stand  against  the  mighty  ? 
J&m.  And  for  whom 


474  7ffE  S7EGZ  OF  VALENCIA. 

Hath  He,  who  shakes  the  mighty  with  a  breath 

From  their  high  places,  made  the  fearfulr.ess, 

And  ever-wakeful  presence  of  His  power, 

To  the  pale  startled  earth  most  manifest, 

But  for  the  weak  ? — Was't  for  the  helmed  and  crowned 

That  suns  were  stayed  at  noonday  ?    Stormy  seas 

As  a  nil  parted  ? — Mailed  archangels  sent 

To  wither  up  the  strength  of  kings  with  death  ? — 

I  tell  you,  if  these  marvels  have  been  done, 

'Twas  for  the  wearied  and  the  oppressed  of  men. 

They  needed  such.    And  generous  faith  hath  power, 

By  her  prevailing  spirit,  e'en  yet  to  work 

Deliverances,  whose  tale  shall  live  with  those 

Of  the  great  elder-time  ! — Be  of  good  heart : 

Who  is  forsaken  ?     He  that  gives  the  thought 

A  place  within  his  breast ! — 'Tis  not  for  you. 

Know  ye  this  banner  ? 

Cits  (murmuring to  each  other}    Is  she  not  inspired? 
Doth  not  Heaven  call  us  by  her  fervent  voice  ? 

Xim.   Know  ye  this  banner  ? 

Cit.  Tis  the  Cid's. 

Xim.  The  Cid's ! 

Who  breathes  that  name  but  in  the  exulting  tone 
"Which  the  heart  rings  to?     Why.  the  very  wind. 
As  it  swells  out  the  noble  standard's  fold, 
Hath  a  triumphant  sound  ! — The  Cid's  I     It  moved 
Even  as  a  sign  of  victory  through  the  land, 
From  the  free  skies,  ne'er  stooping  to  a  foe  ! 

Old  Cit.  Can  ye  still  pause,  my  brethren  ?    Oh  !  that  youth 
Through  this  worn  frame  were  kindling  once  again  I 

Xim.  Ye  linger  still  ?    Upon  this  very  air, 
He  that  was  born  in  happy  hour  for  Spain, 
Poured  forth  his  conquering  spirit !     Twas  the  breeze 
From  your  own  mountains  which  came  down  to  wave 
This  banner  of  his  battles,  as  it  drooped 
Above  the  champion's  deathbed      Nor  even  then 
Its  tale  of  glory  closed      They  made  no  moan 
O'er  the  dead  hero,  and  no  dirge  was  sung, 
But  the  deep  tambour  and  shrill  horn  of  war 
Told  when  the  mighty  passed !     They  wrapt  him  not 
With  the  pale  shroud,  but  braced  the  warrior's  form 
In  war  array,  and  on  his  barbed  steed. 
As  for  a  triumph,  reared  him  ,  marching  forth 
In  the  hushed  midnight  from  Valencia's  walls, 
Beleaguered  then,  as  now.     All  silently 
The  stately  funeral  moved.     But  who  was  he 
That  followed,  charging  on  the  tall  white  horse, 
And  with  the  solemn  standard,  broad  and  pale, 
Waving  in  sheets  of  snowlight  ?     And  the  cross, 
The  bloody  cross,  far-blazing  from  his  shield, 
And  the  fierce  meteor-sword  *     They  fled,  they  fled, 
The  kings  of  Afric,  with  the«i  Jguntless  hosts. 


THE  S7EGE  OF  VALENCIA.  475 


Were  dust  in  his  red  path.     The  cimeter 
Was  shivered  as  a  reed; — for  in  that  hour 
The  warrior  saint  that  keeps  the  watch  for  Spain, 
Was  armed  betimes      And  o'er  that  fiery  field 
The  Cid's  high  banner  streamed  all  joyously, 
For  still  its  lord  was  there. 

Cits  (rising  tttmultuoitsly).  Even  unto  death 
Again  it  shall  be  followed ! 

Xim.  Will  he  see 

The  noble  stem  hewn  down,  the  beacon-light 
Which  from  his  house  for  ages  o'er  the  land 
Hath  shone  through  cloud  and  storm,  thus  quenched  at  once  ? 
Will  he  not  aid  his  children  in  the  hour 
Of  this  their  utmost  peril  ?    Awful  power 
Is  with  the  holy  dead,  and  there  are  times 
When  the  tomb  hath  no  chain  they  cannot  burst  I 
Js  it  a  thing  forgotten  how  he  woke 
From  its  deep  rest  of  old ;  remembering  Spain 
In  her  great  danger  ?    At  the  night's  mid  watch 

How  Leon  started  when  the  sound  was  heard 
That  shook  her  dark  and  hollow  echoing  streets, 
As  with  the  heavy  tramp  of  steel-clad  men. 

By  thousands  marching  through      For  he  had  risen  I 

The  Campeador  was  on  his  march  again. 

And  in  his  arms,  and  followed  by  his  hosts 

Of  shadowy  spearmen      He  had  left  the  world 

From  which  we  are  dimly  parted,  and  gone  forth, 

And  called  his  buried  warriors  from  their  sleep, 

Gathering  them  round  him  to  deliver  Spain  ; 

For  Afric  was  upon  her.     Morning  broke. 

Day  rushed  through  clouds  of  battle  ;  but  at  eve 

Our  God  had  triumphed,  and  the  rescued  land 

Sent  up  a  shout  of  victory  from  the  field, 

That  rocked  her  ancient  mountains. 

The  Ctls.  Arm !    To  arms  I 

On  to  our  chief !     We  have  strength  within  us  yet 

To  die  with  our  blood  roused  !     Now  be  the  word 

For  the  Cid's  house  !  I  They  begin  to  arm  tkemsehfi 

Xim.  Ye  know  his  battle-song— 

The  old  rude  strain  wherewith  his  hands  went  forth 

To  strike  down  Paynim  swords  > 

THE  CID'S  BATTLE  SONG. 

The  Moor  is  on  his  way, 
With  the  tambour  peal  and  the  tecbir-shout, 
And  the  horn  o'er  the  blue  seas  ringing  out, 

He  hath  marshalled  his  dark  array  I 

Shout  through  the  vine-clad  land  I 
That  her  sons  on  ail  their  hills  may  heat. 


476  T0E  STECE  OF  VALENCIA. 


And  sharpen  the  point  of  the  red  wolf-spear, 
And  the  sword  for  the  brave  man's  hand ! 

[The  CITIZENS/*?///  in  the  song,  whilf  '*<y  "•» 
thine  arming  themselves. 

Banners  are  in  the  field ! 
The  chief  must  rise  from  his  joyous  board, 
And  turn  from  the  feast  ere  the  wine  be  poured, 

And  take  up  his  father's  shield ! 

The  Moor  is  on  his  way ! 
Let  the  peasant  leave  his  olive-ground 
And  the  goats  roam  wild  through  the  pine-wood*  round  I 

There  is  nobler  work  to-day ! 

Send  forth  the  trumpet's  cah  i 
Till  the  bridegroom  cast  the  goblet  down, 
And  the  marriage-robe,  and  the  flowery  crown  ; 

And  arm  in  the  banquet-hall ! 

And  stay  the  funeral  train  : 
Bid  the  chanted  mass  be  hushed  awhile, 
And  the  bier  laid  down  in  the  holy  aisle, 

And  the  mourners  girt  for  Spain. 

[They  take  up  the  banner  and  follow  XFMENA  0*tt. 
Their  voices  are  heard  gradually  dying  away 
at  a  distance. 

Ere  night  must  swords  be  red  ! 
It  is  not  an  hour  for  knells  and  tears, 
But  for  helmets  braced,  and  serried  spears! 

To-morrow  for  the  dead ! 

The  Cid  is  in  array  I 

His  steed  is  barded,1  his  plume  waves  high, 
His  banner  is  up  in  the  sunny  sky. 

Now  joy  for  the  Cross  to-day ! 

SCENE  VII.— The  Walls  of  the  City      TJie  Plains  beneath,  with  the  Moorish 
Camp  and  Army 

GONZALEZ — GARCIAS — HERNANDEZ. 
(A  wild  sound  of  Moorish  Music  heard  from  below') 

Her   What  notes  are  these  in  their  deep  mournfulness 
So  strangely  wild  ? 

Gar.  Tis  the  shrill  melody 

Of  the  Moor's  ancient  death-song.     Well  I  know 
The  rude  barbaric  sound  ,  but,  till  this  hour. 
It  seemed  not  fearful.     Now.  a  shuddering  chill 


1  Bar  Jed,  caparaoued  lor  battle. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA  477 


Comes  o'er  me  with  its  tones      Lo !  from  yon  tent 
They  lead  the  noble  boys ! 

Her.  The  young,  and  pure, 

And  beautiful  victims  !     'Tis  on  things  like  these 
We  cast  our  hearts  in  wild  idolatry, 
Sowing  the  winds  with  hope  !     Yet  this  is  well, 
Thus  brightly  crowned  with  life's  most  gorgeous  flowers 
And  all  unblemished,  earth  should  offer  up 
Her  treasures  unto  Heaven ! 

Gar.  (to  GONZALEZ).  My  chief,  the  Moor 

Hath  led  your  children  forth. 

Con,  (starting}  Are  my  sons  there? 

I  knew  they  could  not  perish  ;  for  yon  Heaven 
Would  ne'er  behold  it !     Where  is  he  that  said 
I  was  no  more  a  father  ?    They  look  changed— 
Pallid  and  worn,  as  from  a  prison-house  ! 
Or  is't  mine  eye  sees  dimly  ?    But  their  steps 
Seem  heavy,  as  with  pain      I  hear  the  clank — 
Oh  God !  their  limbs  are  fettered ! 

Abd.  (coming fonoard beneath  the  -walls)      Christian!  look 
Once  more  upon  thy  children.     There  is  yet 
One  moment  for  the  trembling  of  the  sword  ; 
Their  doom  is  still  with  thee. 

Con.  Why  should  this  man 

So  mock  us  with  the  semblance  of  our  kind  ? — 
Moor  !  Moor!  thoti  dost  too  daringly  provoke. 
In  thy  bold  cruelty,  the  all  judging  One, 
Who  visits  for  such  things !     I  last  thou  no  sense 
Of  thy  frail  nature  ?     'Twill  be  taught  thee  yet, 
And  darkly  shall  the  anguish  of  my  soul, 
Darkly  and  heavily,  pour  itself  on  thine. 
When  thou  shall  cry  for  mercy  from  the  dust. 
And  be  denied ! 

AM,  Nay,  is  it  not  thyself, 

That  hast  no  mercy  and  no  love  within  thee  ? 
These  are  thy  sons,  the  nurslings  of  thy  house  ; 
Speak !  must  they  live  or  die  ? 

Gon.  (in  violent  emotion).  Is  it  Heaven's  will 

To  try  the  dust  in  kindles  for  a  day, 
With  infinite  agony  !     How  have  I  drawn 
This  chastening  on  my  head  !     They  bloomed  around  me, 
And  my  heart  grew  too  fearless  in  its  joy, 
Glorying  in  their  bright  promise !     If  we  fall, 
Is  there  no  pardon  for  our  feebleness  ? 

[HERNANDEZ,  without  speaking,  holds  up  a  cross  befori 
him. 

Abd.  Speak! 

Gon.   (snatching  the  cross  and  lifting  it  up).     Let  the  earth 

be  shaken  through  its  depths, 
But  this  must  triumph  ! 

Abd.  (coldly).  Be  it  as  thou  wilt. 

Vnsheath  the  cimeter  I  [To  his  guard* 


47»  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Gar.   (to  GOXZALKZ).         Away,  my  chief  ! 
This  is  your  place  no  longer.     There  are  things 
No  human  heart,  though  battle-proof  as  yours, 
Unmaddetied  may  sustain. 

Con.  Be  still !     I  have  now 

No  place  on  earth  but  this ! 

Alph.  (from  bencath\  Men  !  give  me  way, 

That  I  may  speak  forth  once  before  I  die  ! 

Gar.  The  princely  boy  ! — how  gallantly  his  brow 
Wears  its  high  nature  in  the  face  of  death  ! 

Alph.  Father! 

Gon.  My  son  !  my  son  !  mine  eldest-born  1 

Alph.  Stay  but  upon  the  ramparts  !     Fear  thou  not ! 
There  is  good  courage  in  me.     Oh.  my  father, 
I  will  not  shame  thee  1  only  let  me  fall, 
Knowing  thine  eye  looks  proudly  on  thy  child, 
So  shall  my  heart  have  strength  ! 

Gon.  Would,  would  to  God, 

That  I  might  die  for  thee,  my  noble  boy, 
Alphonso,  my  fair  son  ! 

Alph.  Could  I  have  lived, 

I  might  have  been  a  warrior !     Now,  farewell, 
But  look  upon  me  still !     I  will  not  blench 
When  the  keen  sabre  flashes  !     Mark  me  well ! 
Mine  eyelids  shall  not  quiver  as  it  falls, 
So  thou  wilt  look  upon  me  ! 

Gar.  (to  GONZALEZ).  Nay,  my  lord  1 

We  must  begone  !     Thou  canst  not  bear  it ! 

Gon.  Peace  I 

Who  hath  told  thee  how  much  man's  heart  can  bear  ?— 
Lend  me  thine  arm — my  brain  whirls  fearfully  ! 
How  thick  the  shades  close  round  !     My  boy  !  my  boy  ! 
Where  art  thou  in  this  gloom  ? 

Gar.  Let  us  go  hence  ! 

This  is  a  dreadful  moment  ! 

Gon.  Hush  ! — what  saidst  thou  ? 

Now  let  me  look  on  him! — Dost  thmi  see  aught 
Through  the  dull  mist  which  wraps  us  ? 

Gar.  I  behold — 

O  !  for  a  thousand  Spaniards!  to  rush  down — 

Gon.  Thou  seest — my  heart  stands  still  to  hear  thee  speak  I 
There  seems  a  fearful  hush  upon  the  air, 
As  'twere  the  dead  of  night  ! 

Gar.  The  hosts  have  closed 

Around  the  spot  in  stillness     Through  the  spears, 
Ranged  thick  and  motionless,  I  see  him  not , 
.But  now — 

Gon.  He  bade  me  keep  mine  eye  upon  him, 

And  all  is  darkness  round  me  I — Now  ? 

Gar.  A  sword, 

A  sword,  springs  upward,  like  a  lightning  burst, 
Through  the  dark  serried  mass  ! — Its  cold  blue  glare 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  479 

Is  wavering  to  and  fro — 'tis  vanished — hark ! 

Gon.  I  heard  it,  yes  !— I  heard  the  dull  dead  sound 
Tliat  heavily  broke  the  silence  ! — Didst  thou  speak  ? 
I  lost  thy  words — come  nearer  ! 

Gar.  Twas — 'tis  past — 

The  sword  fell  then  ! 

Her.  (with  exultation.}   Flow  forth,  thou  noble  blood  I 
Fount  of  Spain's  ransom  and  deliverance,  now 
Unchecked  and  brightly  forth  !     Thou  kingly  stream ! 
Blood  of  our  heroes  !  blood  of  martyrdom ! 
Which  through  so  many  warrior-hearts  hast  poured 
Thy  fiery  currents,  and  hast  made  our  hills 
Free,  by  thine  own  free  offering  !     Bathe  the  land, 
But  there  thou  shalt  not  sink  !     Our  very  air 
Shall  take  thy  coloring,  and  our  loaded  skies 
O'er  the  infidel  hang  dark  and  ominous, 
With  battle-hues  of  thee  !     And  thy  deep  voice 
Rising  above  them  to  the  judgment-seat 
Shall  call  a  burst  of  gathered  vengeance  down, 
To  sweep  the  oppressor  from  us  !     For  thy  wave 
Hath  made  his  guilt  run  o'er  ! 

Gon.  (endeavoring  to  rouse  himself  )•     'Tis  all  a  dream! 
There  is  not  one — no  hand  on  earth  could  harm 
That  fair  boy's  graceful  head  ! — Why  look  you  thus? 

Abd.  (pointing to  CAM.OS).     Christian!  e'en  yet  thou  hast  a  son! 

Gon.  E'en  yet  I 

Gar.  My  father  !  take  me  from  these  fearful  men  I 
Wilt  thou  not  save  me,  father? 

Gon.  (attempting  to  unsheath  his  nvord).     Is  the  strength 
From  mine  arm  shivered? — Garcias,  follow  me  ! 

Gar.     Whither,  my  chief  ? 

Gon.  Why,  we  can  die  as  well 

On  yonder  plain — ay,  a  spear's  thrust  will  do 
The  little  that  our  misery  doth  require, 
Sooner  than  e'en  this  anguish !     Life  is  best 
Thrown  from  us  in  such  moments.  {Voices  heard  at  a  distarve. 

Her.  Hush !  what  strain 

Floats  on  the  wind  ? 

Gar.  Tis  the  Cid's  battle-song  ! 

What  marvel  hath  been  wrought  ? 

[  Voices  approaching  heard  in  choru*. 
The  Moor  is  on  his  way ! 
With  the  tambour-peal  and  the  tecbir-shout, 
And  the  horn  o'er  the  blue  seas  ringing  out; 
He  hath  marshalled  his  dark  array  1 

(XlMENA  enters,  followed  by  the  CITIZENS,  with  the  Banntr). 

Xim.     Is  it  too  late  ?     My  father,  these  are  men 
Through  life  and  death  prepared  to  follow  thee 
Beneath  this  banner  1     Is  their  zeal  too  late  ? 
Oh!  there's  a  fearful  history  on  thy  brow  I 
What  hast  thou  seen  ? 


480  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


Gar.  It  is  not  all  too  late. 

Xim.     My  brothers ! 

Her.  All  is  well. 

( To  GARCIAS.)     Hush!  wouldst  thou  chill 
That  which  hath  sprung  within  them,  as  a  flame 
From  the  altar-embers  mounts  in  sudden  brightness? 
I  say,  'tis  not  too  late,  ye  men  of  Spain! — 
On  to  the  rescue  ! 

Xim.  Bless  me,  O  my  father  ! 

And  I  will  hence,  to  aid  thee  with  my  prayers, 
Sending  my  spirit  witli  thee  through  the  storm 
Lit  up  by  flashing  swords ! 

Gon.  (falling  upon  her  neck).     Hath  aught  been  spared? 
Am  I  not  all  bereft  ?    Thou'rt  left  me  still ! 
Mine  own,  my  loveliest  one,  thou'rt  left  me  still  1 
Farewell ! — thy  father's  blessing,  and  thy  God's, 
Be  with  thee,  my  Ximena ! 

Xim.  Fare  thee  well ! 

If  e'er  thy  steps  turn  homeward  from  the  field 
The  voice  is  hushed  that  still  hath  welcomed  thee, 
Think  of  me  in  thy  victory  ! 

Her.  Peace  !  no  more ! 

This  is  no  time  to  melt  our  nature  down 
To  a  soft  stream  of  tears  ! — Be  of  strong  heart ! 
Give  me  the  banner  I     Swell  the  song  again ! 

The  Cits.     Ere  night  must  swords  be  red  ! 
It  is  not  an  hour  for  knells  and  tears, 
But  for  helmets  braced  and  serried  spears  I — 
To-morrow  for  the  dead ! 

[Exeunt  omnes. 

SCENE  VIII. — Before  the  Altar  of  a  Church. 
ELMINA  rises  from  the  steps  of  the  Altar. 

Elm.  The  clouds  are  fearful  that  o'erhang  thy  ways, 
Oh,  thou  mysterious  Heaven ! — It  cannot  be 
That  I  have  drawn  the  vials  of  thy  wrath, 
To  burst  upon  me  through  the  lifting  up 
Of  a  proud  heart,  elate  in  happiness  I 
No  I  in  my  day's  full  noon,  for  me  life's  flowers 
But  wreathed  a  cup  of  trembling  ;  and  the  love, 
The  boundless  love,  my  spirit  was  formed  to  bear, 
Hath  ever,  in  its  place  of  silence,  been 
A  trouble  and  a  shadow,  tinging  thought 
With  hues  too  deep  for  joy ! — I  never  looked 
On  my  fair  children,  in  their  buoyant  mirth 
Or  sunny  sleep,  when  all  the  gentle  air 
Seemed  glowing  with  their  quiet  blessedness, 
But  o'er  my  soul  there  came  a  shuddering  sense 
Of  earth,  and  its  pale  changes;  even  like  that 
Which  vaguely  mingles  with  our  glorious  dreams— 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  481 

A  restless  and  disturbing  consciousness 

That  the  bright  things  must  fade !     How  have  I  shrunk 

From  the  dull  murmur  of  the  unquiet  voice, 

With  its  low  tokens  of  mortality, 

Till  my  heart  fainted  midst  their  smiles  ! — their  smiles  1 

Where  are  those  glad  looks  now? — Could  they  go  down, 

With  all  their  joyous  light,  that  seemed  not  earth's, 

To  the  cold  grave?     My  children  !  righteous  Heaven! 

There  floats  a  dark  remembrance  o'er  my  brain 

Of  one  who  told  me,  with  relentless  eye, 

That  this  should  be  the  hour !  [XlMENA  enters 

Xim.  They  are  gone  forth 

Unto  the  rescue  ! — strong  in  heart  and  hope, 
Faithful,  though  few !     My  mother,  let  thy  prayers 
Call  on  the  land's  good  saints  to  lift  once  more 
The  sword  and  cross  that  sweep  the  field  for  Spain 
As  in  old  battle  ;  so  thine  arms  e'en  yet  » 

May  clasp  thy  sons ! — For  me,  my  part  is  done  1 
The  flame  which'  dimly  might  have  lingered  yet 
A  little  while,  hath  gathered  all  its  rays 
Brightly' to  sink  at  once ;  and  it  is  well ! 
The  shadows  are  around  me  ;  to  thy  heart 
Fold  me,  that  I  may  die. 

Elm.  My  child  !    What  dream 

Is  on  thy  soul  ?     Even  now  thine  aspect  wears 
Life's  brightest  inspiration ! 
Xim.  Death's! 

Elm.  Away! 

Thine  eye  hath  starry  clearness;  and  thy  cheek 
Doth  glow  beneath  it  with  a  richer  hue 
Than  tinged  its  earliest  flower ! 

Xim.  It  we"  maY  be 

There  are  far  deeper  and  far  warmer  hues 
Than  those  which  draw  their  coloring  from  the  founts 
Of  youth,  or  health,  or  hope. 

Elm.  Nay,  speak  not  thus! 

There's  that  about  thee  shining  which  would  send 
E'en  through  my  heart  a  sunny  glow  of  joy, 

Were't  not  for  these  sad  words.    The  dim  cold  air 
And  solemn  light,  which  wrap  these  tombs  and  shrines 

As  a  pale  gleaming  shroud,  seem  kindled  up 

With  a  young  spirit  of  ethereal  hope 

Caught  from  thy  mien  !     Oh  no !  this  is  not  death ! 
Xim.    Why  should  not  He,  whose  touch  dissolves  our  chain. 

Put  on  his  robes  of  beauty  when  he  comes 

As  a  deliverer  ?     He  hath  many  forms, 

They  should  not  all  be  fearful  1     If  his  call    • 

Be  but  our  gathering  to  that  distant  land 

For  whose  sweet  waters  we  have  pined  with  thirst 

Why  should  not  its  prophetic  sense  be  borne 

Into  the  heart's  deep  stillness,  with  a  breath 

Of  summer-winds,  a  voice  of  melody, 


482  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Solemn,  yet  lovely?     Mother,  I  depart! — 
Be  it  thy  comfort,  in  the  after-days, 
That  thou  hast  seen  me  thus  ! 

Elm.  Distract  me  not 

With  such  wild  fears  !     Can  1  bear  on  with  life 
When  thou  art  gone  ?     Thy  voice,  thy  step,  thy  smile, 
Passed  from  my  path  ?     Alas  !  even  now  thine  eye 
Is  changed — thy  cheek  is  fading ! 

Xim.  Ay,  the  clouds 

Of  the  dim  hour  are  gathering  o'er  my  sight, 
And  yet  I  fear  not,  for  the  God  of  Help 
Comes  in  that  quiet  darkness!     It  may  soothe 
Thy  woes,  my  mother !  if  I  tell  thee  now 
With  what  glad  calmness  I  behold  the  veil 
Falling  between  me  and  the  world,  wherein 
My  heart  so  ill  hath  rested. 
,       'Elm.  Thine ! 

Xim.  Rejoice 

For  her,  that,  when  the  garland  of  her  Tife 
Was  blighted,  and  the  springs  of  hope  were  dried, 
Received  her  summons  hence ;  and  had  no  time, 
Bearing  the  canker  at  the  impatient  heart, 
To  wither,  sorrowing  for  that  gift  of  Heaven, 
Which  lent  one  moment  of  existence  light, 
That  dimmed  the  rest  forever  ! 

Elm.  How  is  this  ? 

My  child,  what  mean'st  thou  ? 

Xim.  Mother  !  I  have  loved. 

And  been  beloved ! — the  sunbeam  of  an  hour, 
Which  gave  life's  hidden  treasures  to  mine  eye, 
As  they  lay  shining  in  their  secret  founts, 
Went  out  and  left  them  colorless.     'Tis  past — 
And  what  remains  on  earth  ? — the  rainbow  mist, 
Through  which  I  gazed,  hath  melted,  and  my  sight 
Is  cleared  to  look  on  all  things  as  they  are  ! — 
But  this  is  far  too  mournful  !     Life's  dark  gift 
Hath  fallen  too  .early  and  too  cold  upon  me! 
Therefore  I  would  go  hence  ! 

v                  Elm.  And  thou  hast  loved 

Unknown 

Xim.  Oh  !  pardon,  pardon  that  I  veiled 

My  thoughts  from  thee!     But  thou  hast  woes  enough, 
And  mine  came  o'er  me  when  thy  soul  had  need 
Of  more  than  mortal  strength  !     For  I  had  scarce 
Given  the  deep  consciousness  that  I  was  loved 
A  treasure's  place  within  my  secret  heart, 
When  earth's  brief  joy  went  from  me ! — 

'Twas  at  morn 

I  saw  the  warriors  to  the  field  go  forth, 
And  he — my  chosen — was  there  amongst  the  rest, 
With  his  young,  glorious  brow  !     I  looked  again — 
The  strife  grew  dark  beneath  me- -but  his  plume 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  483 

Waved  free  above  the  lances.     Yet  again — 
It  had  gone  down  !  and  steeds  were  trampling  o'er 
The  spot  to  which  mine  eyes  were  riveted, 
Till  blinded  by  the  intenseness  of  their  gaze  1 
And  then — at  last — I  hurried  to  the  gate, 
And  met  him  there  !     I  met  him ! — on  his  shield, 
And  with  his  cloven  helm,  and  shivered  sword, 
And  dark  hair  steeped  in  blood!     They  bore  him  past- 
Mother  !  I  saw  his  face  ! — Oh  !  such  a  death 
Works  fearful  changes  on  the  fair  of  earth, 
The  pride  of  woman's  eye  ! 

Elm.                                        Sweet  daughter,  peace  ! 
Wake  not  the  dark  remembrance  ;  for  thy  frame 

Xim.     There  will  be  peace  ere  long.     I  shut  my  heart, 
Even  as  a  tomb,  o'er  that  lone  silent  grief, 
That  I  might  spare  it  thee ! — But  now  the  hour 
Is  come  when  that  which  would  have  pierced  thy  soul 
Shall  be  its  healing  balm.     Oh !  weep  thou  not, 
Save  with  a  gentle  sorrow  1 

Elm.  Must  it  be  ? 

Art  thou  indeed  to  leave  me? 

Xim.  (exultingty).  Be  thou  glad ! 

I  say,  rejoice  above  thy  favored  child  1 
Joy,  for  the  soldier  when  his  field  is  fought, 
Joy,  for  the  peasant  when  his  vintage-task 
Is  closed  at  eve  !     But  most  of  all  for  her, 
Who,  when  her  life  had  changed  its  glittering  robes 
For  the  dull  garb  of  sorrow,  which  doth  cling 
So  heavily  around  the  journeyers  on, 
Cast  down  its  weight — and  slept ! 

Elm.  Alas  I  thine  eye 

Is  wandering — yet  how  brightly  !     Is  this  death, 
Or  some  high  wondrous  vision  ? — Speak,  my  child  ! 
How  is  it  with  thee  now  ? 

Xim.  (wildly).  I  see  it  still ! 

'Tis  floating,  like  a  glorious  cloud  on  high, 
My  father's  banner !     Hear'st  thou  not  a  sound  ? 
The  trumpet  of  Castile  ? — Praise,  praise  to  Heaven ! 
— Now  may  the  weary  rest !     Be  still ! — Who  calls 
The  night  so  fearful  ? [She  Jtet 

Elm.  No  !  she  is  not  dead ! — 

Xiniena  ! — speak  to  me !     Oh  yet  a  tone 
From  that  sweet  voice,  that  I  may  gather  in 
One  more  remembrance  of  its  lovely  sound, 
Ere  the  deep  silence  fall  1     What,  is  all  hushed?— 
No,  no !  it  cannot  be  ! — How  should  we  bear 
The  dark  misgivings  of  our  souls,  if  Heavea 
Left  not  such  beings  with  us? — But  is  this 
Her  wonted  look  ? — too  sad  a  quiet  lies 
On  its  dim  fearful  beauty!     Speak,  Ximena! 
Speak  ! — my  heart  dies  within  me  !     She  is  gone, 
With  all  her  blessed  smiles ! — my  child !  my  child  \ 


4§4  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Where  art  thou  ?     Where  is  that  which  answered  me, 
From  thy  soft-shining  eyes  ? — Hush  !  doth  she  move  ? 
One  light  lock  seemed  to  tremble  on  her  brow, 
As  a  pulse  throbbed  beneath  ; — 'twas  but  the  voice 
Of  my  despair  that  stirred  it !     She  is  gone  ! 

[She  throws  herself  on  the  body 

(GONZALEZ  enters,  alone,  and  wounded.) 

Elm.  (rising  as  lie  approaches)      I  must  not  now  be  scorned ! 

No,  not  a  look, 

A  whisper  of  reproach  !     Behold  my  woe  ! — 
Thou  canst  not  scorn  me  now ! — 

Con.  Hast  thou  heard  all  ? 

Elm.     Thy  daughter  on  my  bosom  laid  her  head, 
And  passed  away  to  rest. — Behold  her  there, 
Even  such  as  death  hath  made  her  ! 

Con.  {bending  over  XIMENA'S  body}.     Thou  art  gone 
A  little  while  before  me,  oh,  my  child  ! 
Why  should  the  traveller  weep  to  part  with  those 
That  scarce  an  hour  will  reach  their  promised  land 
Ere  he  too  cast  his  pilgrim  staff  away, 
And  spread  his  couch  beside  them  ? 

Elm.  Must  it  be 

Henceforth  enough  that  once  a  thing  so  fair 
Had  its  bright  place  amongst  us  ?     Is  this  all 
Left  for  the  years  to  come  ?     We  will  not  stay  ! 
Earth's  chain  each  hour  grows  weaker. 

Con.  (still gazing  upon  XIMENA).  And  thou'rt  laid 

To  slumber  in  the  shadow,  blessed  child  ! 
Of  a  yet  stainless  altar,  and  beside 
A  sainted  warrior's  tomb ! — Oh,  fitting  place 
For  thee  to  yield  thy  pure  heroic  soul 
Back  unto  him  that 'gave  it !     And  thy  cheek 
Ye'  smiles  in  its  bright  paleness  ! 

Elm.  Hadst  thou  seea 

The  look  with  which  she  passed  I 

Con.  (still  bending  over  her).     Why, 'tis  almost 
Like  joy  to  view  thy  beautiful  repose  ! 
The  faded  image  of  that  perfect  calm 
Floats,  e'en  as  long-forgotten  music,  back 
Into  my  weary  heart !     No  dark  wild  spot 
On  thy  clear  brow  doth  tell  of  bloody  hands 
That  quenched  young  life  by  violence  ! — We've  seen 
Too  much  of  horror,  in  one  crowded  hour, 
To  weep  for  aught  so  gently  gathered  hence  ! — 
Oh  !  man  leaves  other  traces! 

Elm.  (suddenly  starting).         It  returns 
On  my  bewildered  soul ! — Went  ye  not  forth 
Unto  the  rescue  ? — And  thou'rt  here  alone ! — 
Where  are  my  sons  ? 

Gffft.  (solemnly).         We  were  too  late ! 


THE  STEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  485 

Elm.  Too  late  ! 

Hast  thou  naught  else  to  tell  me  ? 

Gon.  I  brought  back 

From  that  last  field  the  banner  of  my  sires, 
And  my  own  death-wound. 

Elm.  Thine ! 

Gon.  Another  hour 

Shall  hush  its  throbs  forever.     I  go  hence, 
And  with  me 

Elm.  No  I    Man  could  not  lift  his  hands. 

Where  hast  thou  left  thy  sons  ? 

Gon.  I  have  no  sons. 

Elm.  What  hast  thou  said  ? 

Gon.  That  now  there  lives  not  one 

To  wear  the  glory  of  mine  ancient  house, 
When  I  am  gone  to  rest. 

Elm.  (throwing  herself  on  the  ground,  and  speaking  in  a  lot* 

hurried  voice]. 

In  one  brief  hour,  all  gone  ! — and  such  a  death  ! 
I  see  their  blood  gush  forth  ! — their  graceful  heads — 
Take  the  dark  vision  from  me,  oh,  my  God ! 
And  such  a  death  for  them  !  I  was  not  there  ! 
They  were  but  mine  in  beauty  and  in  joy, 
Not  in  that  mortal  anguish  ! — All,  all  gone  ! — 
Why  should  I  struggle  more  ?     What  is  this  Power, 
Against  whose  might,  on  all  sides  pressing  us, 
We  strive  with  fierce  impatience,  which  but  lays 
Our  own  frail  spirits  prostrate  ? 

(After  a  long  pause.} — Now  I  know 
Thy  hand,  my  God  !— and  they  are  soonest  crushed 
That  most  withstand  it !     I  resist  no  more. 
A  light,  a  light  springs  up  from  grief  and  death, 
Which  with  its  solemn  radiance  doth  reveal 
Why  we  have  thus  been  tried ! 

Gon.  Then  I  may  still 

Fix  my  last  look  on  thee,  in  holy  love, 
Parting,  but  yet  with  hope? 

Elm.  (falling  at  his  feet).     Canst  thou  forgive  ?— 
— Oh,  I  have  driven  the  arrow  to  thy  heart, 
That  should  have  buried  it  within  mine  own, 
And  borne  the  pang  in  silence !     I  have  cast 
Thy  life's  fair  honor,  in  my  wild  despair, 
As'an  unvalued  gem  upon  the  waves, 
Whence  thou  hast  snatched  it  back,  to  bear  from  earth, 
All  stainless,  on  thy  breast.     Well  hast  thou  done— 
But  I — canst  thou  forgive  ? 

GO,IM  Within  this  hour 

I've  stood  upon  that  verge  whence  mortals  fall, 
And  learned  how  'tis  with  one  whose  sight  grows  dim, 
And  whose  foot  trembles  on  the  gulf's  dark  side.— 
Death  purifies  all  feeling— We  will  part 
In  pity  and  in  love. 


4S6  .  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Elm.  Death: — And  thou  too 

Art  on  thy  way  !     Oh,  joy  for  thee,  high  heart ! 
Glory  and  joy  for  thee  !     The  day  is  closed, 
And  well  and  nobly  hast  thou  borne  thyself 
Through  its  long  battle-toils,  though  many  swords 
Have  entered  thine  own  soul !     But  on  my  head 
Recoil  the  fierce  invokings  of  despair, 
And  I  am  left  far  distanced  in  the  race, 
The  lonely  one  of  earth  !— Ay,  this  is  just. 
I  am  not  worthy  that  upon  my  breast 
In  this,  thine  hour  of  victory,  thou  shouldst  yield 
Thy  spirit  unto  God ! 

Gon.  Thou  art !  thou  art ! 

Oh  !  a  life's  love,  a  heart's  long  faithfulness, 
Even  in  the  presence  of  eternal  things, 
Wearing  their  chastened  beauty  all  undimmed, 
Assert  their  lofty  claims ;  and  these  are  not 
For  one  dark  ho'ur  to  cancel  !— We  are  here. 
Before  that  altar  which  received  the  vows 
Of  our  unbroken  youth,  and  meet  it  is 
For  such  a  witness,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
And  in  the  face  of  death,  whose  shadowy  arm 
Comes  dim  between  us,  to  record  the  exchange 
Of  our  tried  heart's  forgiveness. — Who  are  they, 
That  in  one  path  have  journeyed,  needing  not 
Forgiveness  at  its  close  ? 

(A  CITIZEN  enters  hastily.) 

dt.  The  Moors !  the  Moors ! 

Gon.     How  !  is  the  city  stormed  ? 
O  righteous  Heaven!  for  this  I  looked  not  yet! 
Hath  all  been  done  in  vain  ?    Why,  then,  'tis  time 
For  prayer,  and  then  to  rest ! 

dt.  The  sun  shall  set, 

And  not  a  Christian  voice  be  left  for  prayer, 
To-night,  vyithin  Valencia.  Round  our  walls 
The  paynim  host  is  gathering  for  the  assault, 
And  we  have  none  to  guard  them. 

Gon.  Then  my  place 

Is  here  no  longer.    I  had  hoped  to  die 
E'en  by  the  altar  and  the  sepulchre 
Of  my  brave  sires ;  but  this  was  not  to  be  ! 
Give  me  my  sword  again,  and  lead  me  hence 
Back  to  the  ramparts.     I  have  yet  an  hour, 
And  it  hath  still  high  duties.     Now,  my  wife  ! 
Thou  mother  of  my  children — of  the  dead — 
Whom  I  name  unto  thee  in  steadfast  hope — 
Farewell ! 

Elm.        No,  not  farewell !     My  soul  hath  risen 
To  mate  itself  with  thine  ;  and  by  thy  side 
Amidst  the  hurling  lances,  I  will  stand, 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


As  one  on  whom  a  brave  man's  love  hath  been 
Wasted  not  utterly. 

(Jon.  I  thank  thee.  Heaven! 

That  I  have  tasted  of  the  awful  joy 
Which  Thou  hast  given,  to  temper  hours  like  this 
With  a  deep  sense  of  Thee,  and  of  Thine  ends 
In  these  dread  visitings  ! 

(70  ELMINA).  We  will  not  part, 

But  with  the  spirit's  parting. 

Elm.  One  farewell 

To  her,  that,  mantled  with  sad  loveliness, 
Doth  slumber  at  our  feet !     My  blessed  child  ! 
Oh !  in  thy  heart's  affliction  thou  wert  strong, 
And  holy  courage  did  pervade  thy  woe 
As  light  the  troubled  waters     15e  at  peace 
Thou  whose  bright  spirit  made  itself  the  soul 
Of  all  that  were  around  thee !     And  thy  life 
E'en  then  was  struck  and  withering  at  the  core  ! 
Farewell  !  thy  parting  look  hath  on  me  fallen, 
E'en  as  a  gleam  of  heaven,  and  I  am  now 
More  like  what  thou  hast  been.     My  soul  is  hushed, 
For  a  still  sense  of  purer  worlds  hath  sunk 
And  settled  on  its  depths  with  that  last  smile 
Which  from  thine  eye  shone  forth.     Thou  hast  not  lived 
In  vain — my  child,  farewell ! 

Gon.  Surely  for  thee 

Death  had  no  sting,  Ximena !     We  are  blest, 
To  learn  one  secret  of  the  shadowy  pass, 
From  such  an  aspect's  calmness.     Yet  once  more 
I  kiss  thy  pale  young  cheek,  my  broken  flower  ! 
In  token  of  the  undying  love  and  hope 
Whose  land  is  far  away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX.— The  Walls  of  the  City. 
HERNANDEZ. — A  few  Citizens  gathered  round  him. 

Ihr.  Why,  men  have  cast  the  treasures,  which  their  lives 
Had  been  worn  down  in  gathering,  on  the  pyre, 
Ay,  at  their  household  hearths  have  lit  the  brand, 
Even  from  that  shrine  of  quiet  love  to  bear 
The  flame  which  pave  their  temples  and  their  homes, 
In  ashes,  to  the  winds  !     They  have  done  this, 
Making  a  blasted  void  where  once  the  sun 
Looked  upon  lovely  dwellings  ;  and  from  earth 
Razing  all  record  that  on  such  a  spot 
Childhood  hath  sprung,  age  faded,  misery  wept, 
And  frail  humanity  knelt  before  her  God; 
They  have  done  this,  in  their  free  nobleness, 
Rather  than  see  the  spoiler's  tread  pollute 
Their  holv  places.     Praise,  high  praise  be  theirs, 
Who  have  left  man  such  lessons  !     And  these  things, 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 


Made  your  own  hills  their  witnesses  !     The  sky, 
Whose  arch  bends  o'er  you,  and  the  seas,  wherein 
Your  rivers  pour  their  gold,  rejoicing  saw 
The  altar,  and  the  birthplace,  and  the  tomb, 
And  all  memorials  of  man's  heart  and  faith, 
Thus  proudly  honored  I     Be  ye  not  outdone 
By  the  departed !     Though  the  godless  foe 
Be  close  upon  us,  we  have  power  to  snatch 
The  spoils  of  victory  from  him      Be  but  strong, 
A  few  bright  torches  and  brief  moments  yet 
Shall  baffle  his  flushed  hope,  and  we  may  die, 
Laughing  him  unto  scorn.     Rise,  follow  me, 
And  thou,  Valencia  !  triumph  in  thy  fate, 
The  ruin,  not  the  yoke,  and  make  thy  towers 
A  beacon  unto  Spain ! 

Cits.  We'll  follow  thee  I 

Alas  !  for  our  fair  city,  and  the  homes 
Wherein  we  reared  our  children !  But  away  ! 
The  Moor  shall  plant  no  crescent  o'er  our  fanes  ! 

Voice  {from  a  Tower  on  the  Walls}.     Succors! — Castile! 
Castile! 

Cits,  (rushing  to  the  spot)      It  is  even  so  ! 
Now  blessing  be  to  Heaven,  for  we  are  saved  I—- 
Castile !     Castile ! 

Voice  (from  the  Tower}.     Line  after  line  of  spears, 
Lance  after  lance,  upon  the  horizon's  verge, 
Like  festal  lights  from  cities  bursting  up, 
Doth  skirt  the  plain.     In  faith,  a  noble  host ! 

Another  Voice.     The  Moor  hath  turned  him  from  our 

walls,  to  front 
The  advancing  might  of  Spain  ! 

Cits,  (shouting).  Castile!     Castile  ! 

(GONZALEZ  enters,  supported  by  ELMINA  and  a  Citizen.) 

Gon.  What  shouts  of  joy  are  these  ? 

ffer.  Hail !  chieftain,  hail! 

Thus,  even  in  death,  'tis  given  thee  to  receive 
The  conqueror's  crown !     Behold  our  God  hath  heard, 
And  armed  Himself  with  vengeance  !     Lo  !  they  come  1 
The  lances  of  Castile  1 

Gon.  '        I  knew,  I  knew 

Thou  wouldst  not  utterly,  my  God,  forsake 
Thy  servant  in  his  need  !     My  blood  and  tears 
Have  not  sunk  vainly  to  the  attesting  earth  ! 
Praise  to  thee,  thanks  and  praise,  that  I  have  lived 
To  see  this  hour  ! 

Elm.  And  I,  too,  bless  thy  name, 

Though  thou  hast  proved  me  unto  agony  ! 

0  God  ! — thou  God  of  chastening  ! 

Voice  (from  the  Tower).  They  move  on  ! 

1  see  the  royal  banner  in  the  air, 
With  its  emblazoned  towers  1 


TffE  S7EGE  OF  VALENCIA.  489 


GOH.  Go,  bring  ye  forth 

The  banner  of  the  Cid,  and  plant  it  here, 
To  stream  above  me,  for  an  answering  sign 
That  the  good  cross  doth  hold  its  lofty  place 
Within  Valencia  still  !     What  see  ye  now  ? 

Her.  I  see  a  kingdom's  might  upon  its  path, 
Moving  in  terrible  magnificence, 
Unto  revenge  and  victory !     With  the  flash 
Of  knightly  swords,  up-springing  from  the  ranks. 
As  meteors  from  a  still  and  gloomy  deep, 
And  with  the  waving  of  ten  thousand  plumes, 
Like  a  land's  harvest  in  the  autumn-wind, 
And  with  fierce  light,  which  is  not  of  the  sun, 
But  flung  from  sheets  of  steel — it  comes,  it  comes, 
The  vengeance  of  our  God  ! 

Gon.  I  hear  it  now, 

The  heavy  tread  of  mail-clad  multitudes, 
Like  thunder-showers  upon  the  forest  paths. 

Her.  Ay,  earth  knows  well  the  omen  of  that  sound. 
And  she  hath  echoes,  like  a  sepulchre's, 
Pent  in  her  secret  hollows,  to  respond 
Unto  the  step  of  death  1 

Gon.  Hark  !  how  the  wind 

Swells  proudly  with  the  battle-march  of  Spain! 
Now  the  heart  feels  its  power  ! — A  little  while 
Grant  me  to  live,  my  God  ! — What  pause  is  this  ? 

Her.  A  deep  and  dreadful  one  ! — the  serried  files 
Level  their  spears  for  combat ;  now  the  hosts 
Look  on  each  other  in  their  brooding  wrath, 
Silent  and  face  to  face. 

Voices  heard  without,  chanting. 
Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 

Fair  spirit !  rest  thee  now ! 
E'en  while  with  ours  thy  footsteps  trod 

His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 

Dust,  to  its  narrow  house  beneath ! 

Soul,  to  its  place  on  high ! 
They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death, 

No  more  may  fear  to  die. 

Elm.  (to  GONZALEZ).     It  is  the  death  hymn  o'er  thy 

daughter's  bier ! 

But  I  am  calm  ;  and  e'en  like  gentle  winds, 
That  music,  through  the  stillness  of  my  heart, 
Sends  mournful  peace. 

Gon.  Oh  !  well  those  solemn  tones 

Accord  with  such  an  hour,  for  all  her  life 
Breathed  of  a  hero's  soul  ! 

[A  sound  of  trumpets  and  shouting  from  the  plain. 
Her.  Now,  now  they  close  !     Hark  I  what  a  dull  dead 
sound 


49<>  THE  SIEGE  OF  I'ALEXCfA. 


Is  in  the  Moorish  war-shout !     I  have  known 
Such  tones  prophetic  oft.     The  shock  is  gi.-en — 
Lo!  they  have  placed  their  shields  before  their  hearts, 
And  lowered  their  lances  with  their  streamers  on, 
And  on  their  steeds  bent  forward  ! — God  for  Spain  I 
The  first  bright  sparks  of  battle  have  been  struck 
From  spear  to  spear,  across  the  gleaming  field ! — 
There  is  no  sight  on  which  the  blue  sky  looks 
To  match  with  this  I     Tis  not  the  gallant  crests 
Nor  banners  with  their  glorious  blazonry  , 
The  very  nature  and  high  soul  of  man 
Doth  now  reveal  itself! 

Con.  Oh,  raise  me  up, 

That  I  may  look  upon  the  noble  scene  ! — 
It  will  not  be !    That  this  dull  mist  would  pass 
A  moment  from  my  sight ! — Whence  rose  that  shout. 
As  in  fierce  triumph  ? 

Her.  (fltupiag  his  hands}.     Must  I  look  on  this  ? 
The  banner  sinks — 'tis  taken ! 

Gat.  Whose  ? 

•  Her.  Castile's! 

Con.  Oh,  God  of  battles  ! 

Elm.  Calm  thy  noble  heart  I 

Thou  wilt  not  pass  away  without  thy  meed. 
Nay,  rest  thee  on  my  bosom. 

Her.  Cheer  thee  yet! 

Our  knights  have  spurred  to  rescue.    There  is  now 
A  whirl,  a  mingling  of  all  terrible  things, 
Yet  more  appalling  than  the  fierce  distinctness 
Wherewith  they  moved  before !    I  see  tall  plumes 
All  wildly  tossing  o'er  the  battle's  tide. 
Swayed  by  the  wrathful  motion,  and  the  press 
Of  desperate  men,  as  cedar-boughs  by  storms. 
Many  a  white  streamer  there  is  dyed  with  blood, 
Many  a  false  corslet  broken,  many  a  shield 
Pierced  through !    Now,  shout  for  Santiago,  shout! 
Lo !  javelins  with  a  moment's  brightness  cleave 
The  thickening  dust,  and  barbed  steeds  go  down 
With  their  helmed  riders !— Who  but  One,  can  tell 
How  spirits  part  amidst  that  fearful  rush 
And  trampling  on  of  furious  multitudes  ? 

Con.  ThouVt  silent !— Seest  thou  more  ?— My  soul  grow, 
dark. 

Her.  And  dark  and  troubled  as  an  angry  sea, 
Dashing  some  gallant  armament  in  scorn 
Against  its  rocks,  is  all  on  which  I  gaze  1 
I  can  but  tell  thee  bow  tall  spears  are  crossed, 
And  lances  seem  to  shiver,  and  proud  helms 
To  lighten  with  the  stroke  !       But  round  the  spot, 
Where,  like  a  storm-felled  mast,  our  standard  sank. 
The  heart  of  battle  burns. 

Go*.  Where  is  that  spot  ? 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  491 

Her.  It  is  beneath  the  lonely  tuft  of  palms. 
That  lift  their  green  heads  o'er  the  tumult  still, 
In  calm  and  stately  grace. 

Con.  There  didst  thou  say  ? 

Then  God  is  with  us,  and  we  must  prevail ! 
For  on  that  s|x>t  they  died  !— My  children's  blood 
Calls  on  the  avenger  thence  ! 

Elm.  They  perished  there  I 

And  the  bright  locks  that  waved  so  joyously 
To  the  free  winds,  lay  trampled  and  defiled 
Even  on  that  place  of  death ! — Oh,  Merciful ! 
Hush  the  dark  thought  within  me! 

Htr.  (with  sudden  exultation}.     Who  is  he, 
On  the  white  steed,  and  with  the  castled  helm, 
And  the  gold-broidered  mantle,  which  doth  float 
E'en  like  a  sunny  cloud  above  the  fight ; 
And  the  pale  cross,  which  from  his  breastplate  gleams 
With  star-like  radiance? 

Gon.  (eagerly).  Didst  thou  say  the  cross? 

Her.  On  his  mailed  bosom  shines  a  broad  white  cross, 
And  his  long  plumage  through  the  darkening  air 
Streams  like  a  snow-wreath. 

Gait.  That  should  be — 

Her.  The  king  j— 

Was  it  not  told  us  how  he  sent,  of  late, 
To  the  Cid's  tomb,  e'en  for  the  silver  cross, 
Which  he  who  slumbers  there  was  wont  to  bind 
O'er  his  brave  heart  in  fight  ? 

GOH.  (springing  up  joyfully).     Mv  king  !  my  king ! 
Now  all  good  saints  for  Spain  ! — My  noble  king  ! 
And  thou  art  there  1     That  I  might  look  once  more 
Upon  thy  face ! — But  yet  I  thank  thee,  Heaven, 
That  thou  hast  sent  him,  from  my  dying  hands 
Thus  to  receive  his  city !  [He  sinks  back  into  ELMINA'S  artm 

Her.  He  hath  cleared 

A  pathway  'midst  the  combat,  and  the  light 
Follows  his  charge  through  yon  close  living  mass, 
E'en  as  a  gleam  on  some  proud  vessel's  wake 
Along  the  stormy  waters  ! — 'Tis  redeemed — 
The  castled  banner  !     It  is  flung  once  more, 
In  joy  and  glory,  to  the  sweeping  winds  ! — 
There  seems  a  wavering  through  the  paynim  hosts — 
Castile  doth  press  them  sore — Now,  now  rejoice  ! 

Gon.  What  hast  thou  seen  ? 

Her.  Abdullah  falls  !     He  fall*  I 

The  man  of  blood  1 — the  spoiler ! — he  hath  sunk 
In  our  king's  path  !     Well  hath  that  royal  sword 
Avenged  thy  cause,  Gonzalez ! 

They  give  way, 

The  Crescent's  van  is  brokei  ! — On  the  hills 
And  the  dark  pine-woods  may  the  infidel 
Call  vainly,  in  his  agony  of  fear, 


492  THE  STEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

To  cover  him  from  vengeance  ! — Lo !  they  fly ! 

They  of  the  forest  and  the  wilderness 

Are  scattered,  e'en  as  leaves  upon  the  wind  ! 

Woe  to  the  sons  of  Afric  !     Let  the  plains, 

And  the  vine-mountains,  and  Hesperian  seas, 

Take  their  dead  unto  them  ! — that  blood  shall  wash 

Our  soil  from  stains  of  bondage. 

Gon.  (attempting  to  raise  himself ).     Set  me  free  * 
Come  with  me  forth,  for  I  must  greet  my  king, 
After  his  battle-field  ! 

Her.  O,  blest  in  death  ! 

Chosen  of  Heaven,  farewell! — Look  on  the  Cross, 
And  part  from  earth  in  peace ! 

Gon.  Now,  charge  once  more  I 

God  is  with  Spain,  and  Santiago's  sword 
Is  reddening  all  the  air! — Shout  forth  "Castile!" 
The  day  is  ours ! — I  go  ;  but  fear  ye  not ! 
For  Afric's  lance  is  broken,  and  my  sons 
Have  won  their  first  good  field !  [He  dies. 

Elm.  Look  on  me  yet ! 

Speak  one  farewell,  my  husband  ! — must  thy  voice 
Enter  my  soul  no  more  !     Thine  eye  is  fixed — 
Now  is  my  life  uprooted.-^And  'tis  well. 

(A  sound  of  triumphant  music  is  heard,  and  many  Castilia* 
Knights  and  Soldiers  enter.) 

A  Cit.   Hush  your  triumphal  sounds,  although  ye  come 
E'en  as  deliverers! — But  the  noble  dead, 
And  those  that  mourn  them,  claim  from  human  hearts 
Deep  silent  reverence. 

Elm.  (rising proudly).  No,  swell  forth,  Castile  ! 
Thy  trumpet-music,  till  the  seas  and  heavens, 
And  the  deep  hills,  give  every  stormy  note 
Echoes  to  ring  through  Spain  ! — How,  know  ye  not 
That  all  arrayed  for  triumph,  crowned  and  robed, 
With  the  strong  spirit  which  hath  saved  the  land, 
E'en  now  a  conqueror  to  his  rest  is  gone  ? — 
Fear  not  to  break  that  sleep,  but  let  the  wind 
Swell  on  with  victory's  shout !     He  will  not  hear—- 
Hath earth  a  sound  more  sad  ? 

Her.  Lift  ye  the  dead, 

And  bear  him  with  the  banner  of  his  race 
Waving  above  him  proudly,  as  it  waved 
O'er  the  Cid's  battles,  to  the  tomb  wherein 
His  warrior-sires  are  gathered.  [They  raise  tht  bod) 

Elm.  Ay,  'tis  thus 

Thou  shouldst  be  honored  ! — And  I  follow  thee 
With  an  unfaltering  and  a  lofty  step, 
To  that  last  home  of  glory.     She  that  wears 
In  her  deep  heart  the  memory  of  thy  love, 
Shall  thence  draw  strength  for  all  things,  till  the  God 
Whose  hand  around  her  hath  unpeopled  earth, 
Looking  upon  her  still  and  chastened  soul, 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Call  it  once  more  to  thine  ! 

(To  the  Castilians.)  Awake,  I  say, 

Tambour  and  trumpet,  wake  !     And  let  the  land 
Through  all  her  mountains  hear  your  funeral  peal  — 
So  should  a  hero  pass  to  his  repose  !  [Exeunt  omtut, 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 
A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

COUNT  DI  PROCIDA. 

RAIMOND  DI  PKOCIDA,  hit  Son, 

EKIBEKT,  t'tierey. 

DK  Couci. 

MONTALBA. 

GUIIK). 

ALBERTI. 

ANSBLMO,  a  Monk. 

VlTTORIA. 

CONSTANCB,  Sitter  to  Eribert. 
Nobles,  Soldurs,  Messengers,  Vassals,  Peasants, 
R— Palermo- 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— A  Valley,  with  Vineyards  and  Cottages. 
Groups  of  Peasants— PKOCIDA  disguised  as  a  Pilgrim,  among  them 

ist  Pea.  Ay,  this  was  wont  to  be  a  festal  time 
in  days  gone  by !     I  can  remember  well 
The  old  familiar  melodies  that  rose 
At  break  of  morn^  from  all  our  purple  hills, 
To  welcome  in  the  vintage.     Never  since 
Hath  music  seemed  so  sweet.     But  the  light  hearts 


494  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Which  to  those  measures  beat  so  joyously, 
Are  tamed  to  stillness  now.     There  is  no  voice 
Of  joy  through  all  the  land. 

zd  Pea.  Yes  !  there  are  sounds 

Of  revelry  within  the  palaces, 
And  the  fair  castles  of  our  ancient  lords, 
Where  now  the  stranger  banquets.     Ye  may  hear 
From  thence  the  peals  of  song  and  laughter  rise 
At  midnight's  deepest  hour. 

3</  Pea.  Alas  !  we  sat, 

In  happier  days,  so  peacefully  beneath 
The  olives  and  the  vines  our  fathers  reared, 
Encircled  by  our  children,  whose  quick  steps 
Flew  by  us  in  the  dance  !     The  time  hath  been 
When  peace  was  in  the  hamlet,. wheresoe'er 
The  storm  might  gather.     But  this  yoke  of  France 
Falls  on  the  peasant's  neck  as  heavily 
As  on  the  crested  chieftain's.     We  are  bowed 
E'en  to  the  earth. 

Pea's,  Child.          My  father,  tell  me  when 
Shall  the  gay  dance  and  song  again  resound 
Amidst  our  chestnut-woods,  as  in  those  days 
Of  which  thou'rt  wont  to  tell  the  joyous  tale  ? 

\st  Pea.  When  there  are  light  and  reckless  hearts  once  more 
In  Sicily's  green  vales.     Alas  !  my  boy, 
Men  meet  not  now  to  quaff  the  flowing  bowl, 
To  hear  the  mirthful  song,  and  cast  aside 
The  weight  of  work-day  care  :  they  meet  to  speak 
Of  wrongs  and  sorrows,  and  to  whisper  thoughts 
They  dare  not  breathe  aloud. 

Pro.  (from  the  background).  Ay,  it  is  well 
So  to  relieve  the  o'erburthened  heart,  which  pants 
Beneath  its  weight  of  wrongs ;  but  better  far 
In  silence  to  avenge  them  ! 

An  Old  Pea.  What  deep  voice 

Came  with  that  startling  tone  ? 

ist  Pea.  It  was  our  guest's. 

The  stranger  pilgrim  who  hath  sojourned  here 
Since  yester-mom.     Good  neighbors  mark  him  well  : 
He  hath  a  stately  bearing,  and  an  eye 
Whose  glance  looks  through  the  heart.     His  mien  accords 
111  with  such  vestments.     How  he  folds  around  him 
His  pilgrim-cloak,  e'en  as  it  were  a  robe 
Of  knightly  ermine  !     That  commanding  step 
Should  have  been  used  in  courts  and  camps  to  move. 
Mark  him  ! 

Old  Pea.  Nay,  rather,  mark  him  not;  the  times 
Are  fearful,  and  they  teach  the  boldest  hearts 
A  cautious  lesson.     What  should  bring  him  here  ? 

A  Ymith.  He  spoke  of  vengeance"! 

Old  Pea.  Peace  !  we  are  beset 

By  snares  on  every  side,  and  we  must  learn 


THE  VESPERS  Of  PALERMO.  495 


In  silence  and  in  patience  to  endure. 

Talk  not  of  vengeance,  for  the  word  is  death. 

Pro.  (coming forward  indignantly).  The  word  is  death  I 

And  what  hath  life  for  thee, 

That  thou  shouldst  cling  to  it  thus  ?  thou  abject  thing  ! 
Whose  very  soul  is  moulded  to  the  yoke, 
And  stamped  with  servitude.     What !  is  it  life 
Thus  at  a  breeze  to  start,  to  school  thy  voice 
Into  low  fearful  whispers,  and  to  cast 
Pale  jealous  looks  around  thee,  lest,  e'en  then, 
Strangers  should  catch  its  echo  ? — Is  there  aught 
In  this  so  precious,  that  thy  furrowed  cheek 
Is  blanched  with  terror  at  the  passing  thought 
Of  hazarding  some  few  and  evil  days, 
Which  drag  thus  poorly  on  ? 

Some  of  the  Peas.  Away,  away  ! 

Leave  us,  for  there  is  danger  in  thy  presence. 

Pro.    Why,  what  is  danger  ?    Are  there  deeper  ills 
Than  those  ye  bear  thus  calmly  ?    Ye  have  drained 
The  cup  of  bitterness  till  naught  remains 
To  fear  or  shrink  from — therefore  be  ye  strong  ! 
Power  dwelleth  with  despair.     Why  start  ye  thus 
At  words  which  are  but  echoes  of  the  thoughts 
Locked  in  your  secret  souls  ?    Full  well  I  know, 
There  is  not  one  among  you,  but  hath  nursed 
Some  proud  indignant  feeling,  which  doth  make 
One  conflict  of  his  life.     I  know  thy  wrongs, 
And  thine — and  thine  ;  but  if  within  your  breast 
There  is  no  chord  that  vibrates  to  my  voice, 
Then  fare  ye  well. 

A  Youth  (coming forward].  No,  no !  say  on,  say  on ! 
There  are  still  free  and  fiery  hearts  e'en  here, 
That  kindle  at  thy  words. 

Pea.                                     If  that  indeed 
Thou  hast  a  hope  to  give  us 

Pro-  There  is  hope 

For  all  who  suffer  with  indignant  thoughts 
Which  work  in  silent  strength.     What !  think  ye  Heaven 
O'crlooks  the  oppressor,  if  he  bear  awhile 
His  crested  head  on  high  ?    I  tell  you,  no ! 
The  avenger  will  not  sleep.     It  was  an  hour 
Of  triumph  to  the  conqueror,  when  our  king, 
Our  young  brave  Conradin,  in  life's  fair  morn 
On  the  red  scaffold  died      Yet  not  the  less 
Is  Justice  throned  above  ;  and  her  good  time 
Comes  rushing  on  in  storms  :  that  royal  blood 
Hath  lifted  an  accusing  voice  from  earth, 
And  hath  been  heard.     The  traces  of  the  past 
Fade  in  man's  heart,  but  ne'er  doth  Heaven  forget. 

Pea.     I  lad  we  but  arms  and  leaders,  we  are  men 
Who  might  earn  vengeance  yet ;  but  wanting  these, 
What  wouldst  thou  have  us  do  ? 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Pro.  -  Be  vigilant  ; 

And  when  the  signal  wakes  the  land,  arise  ! 
The  peasant's  arm  is  strong,  and  there  shall  be 
A  rich  and  noble  harvest.     Fare  ye  well.  [Exit  PROCIDA, 

1st  Pea.     This  man  should  be  a  prophet  :  how  he  seemed 
To  read  our  hearts  with  his  dark  searching  glance 
And  aspect  of  command  !  and  yet  his  garb 
Is  mean  as  ours. 

zd  Pea.  Speak  low  ;  I  know  him  well. 

At  first  his  voice  disturbed  me,  like  a  dream 
Of  other  days,  but  I  remember  now 
His  form  seen  oft,  when  in  my  youth  I  served 
Beneath  the  banners  of  our  kings  !    'Tis  he 
Who  hath  been  exiled  and  proscribed  so  long, 
The  Count  di  Procida. 

Pea.  And  is  this  he  ? 

Then  Heaven  protect  him  !  for  around  his  steps 
Will  many  snares  be  set. 

ist  Pea.  He  comes  not  thus 

But  with  some  mighty  purpose  —  doubt  it  not  ; 
Perchance  to  bring  us  freedom.     He  is  one, 
Whose  faith,  through  many  a  trial,  hath  been  proved 
True  to  our  native  princes.     But  away  ! 
The  noontide  heat  is  past,  and  from  the  seas 
Light  gales  are  wandering  through  the  vineyards  ;  now 
We  may  resume  our  toil. 

[Exeunt  Peasant* 


SCENE  ll.—  T/ie  Terrace  of  the  Castle. 
ERIBERT,  VITTORIA. 

Vit.     Have  I  not  told  thee  that  I  bear  a  heart 
Blighted  and  cold  ?  —  The  affections  of  my  youth 
Lie  slumbering  in  the  grave  ;  their  fount  is  closed, 
And  all  the  soft  and  playful  tenderness 
Which  hath  its  home  in  woman's  breast,  ere  yet 
Deep  wrongs  have  seared  it  —  all  is  fled  from  mine. 
Urge  me  no  more. 

Eri.  O  lady  !  doth  the  flower 

That  sleeps  entoml>ed  through  the  long  wintry  storms, 
Unfold  its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  spring, 
And  shall  not  woman's  heart,  from  chill  despair, 
Wake  at  love's  voice  ? 

Vit.  Love  !  —  make  love's  name  thy  spell 

And  I  am  strong  !  —  the  very  word  calls  up 
From  the  dark  past,  thoughts,  feelings,  powers  arrayed 
In  arms  against  thee  !    Knowest  thou  whom  I  loved 
While  my  soul's  dwelling-place  was  still  on  earth  ? 
One  who  was  born  for  empire,  and  endowed 


Tiff*    t'ESPEKS  OF  rAl.ERMO.  497 

With  such  high  gifts  of  princely  majesty, 

As  bowed  all  hearts  before  him  !    Was 'he  not 

Brave,  royal,  beautiful  ?    And  such  he  died  ; 

He  died  ! — hast  thou  forgotten  ? — And  thou'rt  here, 

Thou  meetst  my  glance  with  eyes  which  coldly  looked 

— Coldly  ! — nay,  rather  with  triumphant  gaze, 

Upon  his  murder  ! — Desolate  as  I  am, 

Yet  in  the  mien  of  thine  affianced  bride, 

Oh  !  my  lost  Conradin  !  there  should  be  still 

Somewhat  of  loftiness,  which  might  o'erawe 

The  hearts  of  thine  assassins. 

Eri.  Haughty  dame  I 

If  thy  proud  heart  to  tenderness  be  closed, 
Know,  danger  is  around  thee  :  thmi  hast  foes 
That  seek  thy  ruin,  and  my  power  alone 
Can  shield  thee  from  their  arts. 

Vit.  Proven9al,  tell 

Thy  tale  of  danger  to  some  happy  heart 
Which  hath  its  little  world  of  loved  ones  round, 
For  whom  to  tremble  ;  and  its  tranquil  joys 
That  make  earth  Paradise.     I  stand  alone  ; 
— They  that  are  blest  may  fear. 

Eri.  Is  there  not  one 

Who  ne'er  commands  in  vain  ?     Proud  lady,  bend 
Thy  spirit  to  thy  fate;  for  know  that  he, 
Whose  car  of  triumph  in  its  earthquake  path, 
O'er  the  bowed  neck  of  prostrate  Sicily, 
Hath  borne  him  to  dominion  ;  he,  my  king, 
Charles  of  Anjou,  decrees  thy  hand  the  boon 
My  deeds  have  well  deserved ;  and  who  hath  power 
Against  his  mandates  ? 

Vit.  Viceroy,  tell  thy  lord 

That,  e'en  where  chains  lie  heaviest  on  the  land, 
Souls  may  not  all  be  fettered.     Oft,  ere  now, 
Conquerors  have  rocked  the  earth,  yet  failed  to  tame 
Unto  their  purposes  that  restless  fire 
Inhabiting  man's  breast.     A  spark  bursts  forth, 
And  so  they  perish  !    'Tis  the  fate  of  those 
Who  sport'with  lightning — and  it  may  be  his. 
Tell  him  I  fear  him  not,  and  thus  am  free. 

Eri.  'Tis  well.     Then  nerve  that  lofty  heart  to  bear 
The  wrath  which  is  not  powerless.     Yet  again 
Bethink  thee,  lady!    Love  may  change— hutk  changed 
To  vigilant  hatred  oft,  whose  sleepless  eye 
Still  finds  what  most  it  seeks  for.     Fare  thee  well. 
— Look  to  it  yet ! — to-morrow  I  return. 

[Exit  ERIBKRX 

Vit.     To  -  morrow  !  —  Some  ere  now  have  slept  and 

dreamt. 

Of  morrows  which  ne'er  dawned — or  ne'er  for  them; 
So  silently  their  deep  and  still  repose 
Hath  melted  into  death  !    Arc  there  not  balms 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


In  nature's  boundless  realm,  to  pour  out  sleep 
Like  this  on  me  ?    Yet  should  my  spirit  still 
Endure  its  earthly  bonds,  till  it  could  bear 
To  his  a  glorious  tale  of  his  own  isle, 
Free  and  avenged.  —  Than  shouldst  be  now  at  work, 
In  wrath,  my  native  Etna  I  who  dost  lift 
Thy  spiry  pillar  of  dark  smoke  so  high, 
Through  the  red  heaven  of  sunset  !  —  sleepst  thou  still, 
"Vith  all  thy  founts  of  fire,  while  spoilers  tread 
.'he  glowing  vales  beneath  ? 

[P  ROC  I  DA  enters,  disguised. 
Ha  !  who  art  thou, 

Unbidden  guest,  that  with  so  mute  a  step 
Dost  steal  upon  me  ?  " 

Pro.  One,  o'er  whom  hath  passed 

All  that  can  change  man's  aspect  !    Yet  not  long 
Shalt  thou  find  safety  in  forgetfulness. 
I  am  he,  to  breathe  whose  name  is  perilous, 
Unless  thy  wealth  could  bribe  the  winds  to  silence. 

—  Knowest  thou  this,  lady  ?  \He  shows  a  ring 
Vit.                                      Righteous  heaven  !  the  pledge 

Amidst  his  people  from  the  scaffold  thrown 
By  him  who  perished,  and  whose  kingly  blood 
E'en  yet  is  unatoned.     My  heart  beats  high  — 

—  Oh^  welcome,  welcome  !  thou  art  Procida, 
The  Avenger,  the  Deliverer  ! 

Pro.  Call  me  so, 

When  my  great  task  is  done.     Yet  who  can  tell 
If  the  returned  be  welcome  ?    Many  a  heart 
Is  'changed  since  last  we  met. 

Vit.  Why  dost  thou  gaze, 

With  such  a  still  and  solemn  earnestness, 
Upon  my  altered  mien  ? 

Pro.  That  I  may  read 

If  to  the  widowed  love  of  Conradin, 
Or  the  proud  Eribert's  triumphant  bride, 
I  now  intrust  my  fate. 

Vit.  Thou,  Procida  ! 

That  thou  shouldst  wrong  me  thus  !  —  prolong  thy  gaac 
Till  it  hath  found  an  answer. 

Pro.  'Tis  enough. 

I  find  it  in  thy  cheek,  whose  rapid  change 
Is  from  death's  hue  to  fever's  ;  in  the  wild 
Unsettled  brightness  of  thy  proud  dark  eye, 
And  in  thy  wasted  form.     Ay,  'tis  a  deep 
And  solemn  joy,  thus  in  thy  looks  to  trace, 
Instead  of  youth's  gay  bloom,  the  characters 
Of  noble  suffering  :  on  thy  brow  the  same 
Commanding  spirit  holds  its  native  state, 
Which  could  not  stoop  to  vileness.     Yet  the  voice 
Of  Fame  hath  told  afar,  that  thou  shouldst  wed 
This  tyrant  Eribcrt. 


TTfE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  499 

Vit.  And  told  it  not 

A  tale  of  insolent  love  repelled  with  scorn, 
Of  stern  commands  and  fearful  menaces 
Met  with  indignant  courage  ?    Procida! 
It  was  but  now  that  haughtily  I  braved 
His  sovereign's  mandate,  which  decrees  my  hand, 
With  its  fair  appanage  of  wide  domains. 
And  wealthy  vassals,  a  most  fitting  boon, 
To  recompense  his  crimes. — I  smiled — ay,  smiled— 
In  proud  security  ;  for  the  high  of  heart 
Have  still  a  pathway  to  escape  disgrace, 
Though  it  be  dark  and  lone. 

Pro.  Thou  shalt  not  need 

To  tread  its  shadowy  mazes.     Trust  my  words : 
I  tell  thee  that  a  spirit  is  abroad 
Which  will  not  slumber,  till  its  path  be  traced 
By  deeds  of  fearful  fame.     Vittoria,  live ! 
It  is  most  meet  that  thou  shouldst  live,  to  see 
The  mighty  expiation  ;  for  thy  heart — 
(Forgive  me  that  I  wronged  its  faith !)  hath  nursed 
A  high,  majestic  grief,  whose  seal  is  set 
Deep  on  thy  marble  brow. 

Vit  Then  thou  canst  tell. 

By  gazing  on  the  withered  rose,  that  there 
Time,  or  the  blight,  hath  worked  1    Ay,  this  is  in 
Thy  vision's  scope:  but  oh  !  the  things  unseen, 
Untold,  undreamt  of,  which  like  shadows  pass 
Hourly  o'er  that  mysterious  world,  a  mind 
To  rum  struck  by  grief !     Yet  doth  my  soul, 
Far  midst  its  darkness,  nurse  one  soaring  hope, 
Wherein  is  bright  vitality.     'Tis  to  see 
His  blood  avenged,  and  his  fair  heritage, 
My  beautiful  native  land,  in  glory  risen, 
Like  a  warrior  from  his  slumbers  ! 

Pro.  Hearest  thou  not 

With  what  a  deep  and  ominous  moan  the  voice 
Of  our  great  mountain  swells  ?     There  will  be  soon 
A  fearful  burst !     Vittoria  !  brood  no  more 
In  silence  o'er  thy  sorrows,  but  go  forth 
Amidst  thy  vassals  (yet  be  secret  still). 
And  let  thy  breath  give  nurture  to  the  spark 
Thou'lt  find  already  kindled.     I  move  on 
In  shadow,  yet  awakening  in  my  path 
That  which  shall  startle  nations.     Fare  thee  well. 

Vit.     When  shall  we  meet  again  ?— Are  we  not  those 
Whom  most  he  loved  on  earth,  and  thinkest  thou  not 
That  love  e'en  yet  shall  bring  his  spirit  near 
While  thus  we  hold  communion  ? 

Pro.  Yes,  I  feel 

Its  breathing  influence  whilst  I  look  on  thee, 
Who  wert  its  light  in  life.     Yet  will  we  not 
Make  womanish  tears  our  offering  on  his  tomb; 


$00  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

He  shall  have  nobler  tribute  ! — I  must  hence. 
But  thou  shalt  soon  hear  more.     Await  the  time. 

[Exeunt  separately 

SCENE  III.— The  Sea-Shore. 
RAIMOND  DI  PROCIDA,  CONSTANCE. 

Con.  There  is  a  shadow  far  within  your  eye, 
Which  hath  of  late  been  deepening.     You  were  wont, 
Upon  the  clearness  of  your  open  brow, 
To  wear  a  brighter  spirit,  shedding  round 
Joy  like  our  southern  sun.     It  is  not  well> 
If  some  dark  thought  be  gathering  o'er  your  soul, 
To  hide  it  from  affection.     Why  is  this  f 
My  Raimond,  why  is  this  ? 

Raim.  Oh  !  from  the  dreams 

Of  youth,  sweet  Constance,  hath  not  manhood  still 
A  wild  and  stormy  wakening  ?    They  depart — 
Light  after  light,  our  glorious  visions  fade, 
The  vaguely  beautiful !  till  earth,  unveiled, 
Lies  pale  around  ;  and  life's  realities 
Press  on  the  soul,  from  its  unfathomed  depth 
Rousing  the  fiery  feelings,  and  proud  thoughts, 
In  all  their  fearful  strength  !    'Tis  ever  thus, 
And  doubly  so  with  me ;  for  I  awoke 
With  high  aspirings,  making  it  a  curse 
To  breathe  where  noble  minds  are  bowed,  as  here. 
— To  breathe  ! — It  is  not  breath ! 

Con.  I  know  thy  grief, 

— And  is't  not  mine  ? — for  those  devoted  men 
Doomed  with  their  life  to  expiate  some  wild  word, 
Born  of  the  social  hour.     Oh  I  I  have  knelt, 
E'en  at  my  brother's  feet,  with  fruitless  tears, 
Imploring  him  to  spare.     His  heart  is  shut 
Against  my  voice  ;  yet  will  I  not  forsake 
The  cause  of  mercy. 

Raim.  Waste  not  thou  thy  prayers, 

Oh,  gentle  love,  for  them.    There's  little  need 
For  pity,  though  the  galling  chain  be  worn 
By  some  few  slaves  the  less.     Let  them  depart ! 
There  is  a  world  beyond  the  oppressor's  reach, 
And  thither  lies  their  way. 

Con.  Alas !  I  see 

That  some  new  wrong  hath  pierced  you  to  the  soul. 

Raim.  Pardon,  beloved  Constance,  if  my  words, 
From  feelings  hourly  stung,  have  caught,  perchance, 
A  tone  of  bitterness.     Oh  !  when  thine  eyes, 
With  their  sweet  eloquent  thoughtfulness,  are  fixed 
Thus  tenderly  on  mine,  I  should  forget 
All  else  in  their  soft  beams;  and  yet  I  came 
To  tell  theo 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  $61 

Con.  What  ?     What  wouldst  thou  say  ?     Oh  speak  I 
Thou  wouldst  not  leave  me  ! 

Raim.  I  have  cast  a  cloud, 

The  shadow  of  dark  thoughts  and  ruined  fortunes, 
O'er  thy  bright  spirit     Haply,  were  I  gone, 
Thou  wouldst  resume  thyself,  and  dwell  once  more, 
In  the  clear  sunny  light  of  youth  and  joy, 
E'en  as  before  we  met — lx:fore  we  loved  ! 

Con.  This  is  but  mockery.     Well  thou  knowest  thy  love 
Hath  given  me  nobler  being  ;  made  my  heart 
A  home  for  all  the  deep  sublimities 
Of  strong  affection ;  and  I  would  not  change 
The  exalted  life  I  draw  from  that  pure  source, 
With  all  its  checkered  hues  of  hope  and  fear, 
E'en  for  the  brightest  calm.    Thou  most  unkind ! 
Have  I  deserved  this  ? 

Kaim.  Oh  !  thou  hast  deserved 

A  love  less  fatal  to  thy  peace  than  mine. 
Think  not  'tis  mockery !     But  I  cannot  rest 
To  be  the  scorned  ana  trampled  thing  I  am 
In  this  degraded  land.     Its  very  skies, 
That  smile  as  if  but  festivals  were  held 
Beneath  their  cloudless  azure,  weigh  me  down 
With  a  dull  sense  of  bondage,  and  I  pine 
For  freedom's  chartered  air.     I  would  go  forth 
To  seek  my  noble  father :  he  hath  been 
Too  long  a  lonely  exile,  and  his  name 
Seems  fading  in  'the  dim  obscurity 
Which  gathers  round  my  fortunes. 

Con.  Must  we  part  ? 

And  is  it  come  to  this  ?    Oh  !  I  have  still 
Deemed  it  enough  of  joy  with  thee  to  share 
E'en  grief  itself.    And  now  !     But  this  is  vain. 
Alas  !  too  deep,  too  fond,  is  woman's  love : 
Too  full  of  hope,  she  casts  on  troubled  waves 
The  treasures  of  her  soul ! 

Kaim.  Oh  !  speak  not  thus! 

Thy  gentle  and  desponding  tones  fall  cold 
Upon  my  inmost  heart.    I  leave  thee  but 
To  be  more  worthy  of  a  love  like  thine  ; 
For  I  have  dreamt  of  fame !     A  few  short  years, 
And  we  may  yet  be  blest 

Con.  A  few  short  years  I 

Less  time  may  well  suffice  for  death  and  fate 
To  work  all  change  on  earth  ;   to  break  the  ties 
Which  early  love  had  formed  ;  and  to  bow  down 
The  elastic  spirit,  and  to  blight  each  flower 
Strewn  in  life's  crowded  path  !     But  be  it  so  1 
Be  it  enough  to  know  that  happiness 
Meets  thee  on  other  shores. 

Raim.  Where'er  I  roam. 

Thou  shalt  be  with  my  soul !    Thy  soft  low  vou» 


56*  THE  VESPERS  Of  PALERMO. 


Shall  rise  upon  remembrance,  like  a  strain 
Of  music  heard  in  boyhood,  bringing  back 
Life's  morning  freshness.     Oh  !  that  there  should  be 
Things  which  we  love  with  such  deep  tenderness, 
But,  through  that  love,  to  learn  how  much  of  woe 
Dwells  in  one  hour  like  this !     Yet  weep  thou  not ! 
We  shall  meet  soon ;  and  many  days,  dear  love  ! 
Ere  I  depart. 

Con.  Then  there's  a  respite  still. 

Days  ! — not  a  day  but  in  its  course  may  bring 
Some  strange  vicissitude  to  turn  aside 
The  impending  blow  we  shrink  from. — Fare  thee  well. 

(Returning.} 

— Oh,  kaimond !  this  is  not  our  last  farewell  I 
Thou  wouldst  not  so  deceive  me  ? 

Raim.  Doubt  me  not, 

Gentlest  and  best-beloved  !  we  meet  again. 

\Exit  CONSTANCE. 

Raim.  (after  a  pause}.  When  shall  I  breathe  in  freedom,  and  give 

scope 

To  those  untameable  and  burning  thoughts, 
And  restless  aspirations,  which  consume 
My  heart  i'  the  land  of  bondage  ?     Oh !  with  you, 
Ye  everlasting  images  of  power,    . 
And  of  infinity  !  thou  blue-rolling  deep, 
And  you,  ye  stars  !  whose  beams  are  characters 
Wherewith  the  oracles  of  fate  are  traced — 
With  you  my  soul  finds  room,  and  casts  aside 
The  weight  that  doth  oppress  her.     But  my  thoughts 
Are  wandering  far ;  there  should  be  one  to  share 
This  awful  and  majestic  solitude 
Of  sea  and  heaven  with  me. 

[PROCIDA  enters  unobserver 
It  is  the  hour 
He  named,  and  yet  he  conies  not. 

Pro.  (coming forward}.  He  is  here. 

Raim.     Now,   thou    mysterious    stranger — thou,  whose 

glance 

Doth  fix  itself  on  memory,  and  pursue 
Thought  like  a  spirit,  haunting  its  lone  hours 
Reveal  thyself ;  what  art  thou  ? 

Pro.  One  whose  life 

Hath  been  a  troubled  stream,  and  made  its  way 
Through  rocks,  and  darkness,  and  a  thousand  storms 
With  still  a  mighty  aim.     But  now  the  shades 
Of  eve  are  gathering  round  me,  and  I  come 
To  this,  my  native  land,  that  I  may  rest 
Beneath  its  vines  in  peace. 

Raim.  '  Seekest  thou  for  peace  ? 

This  is  no  land  of  peace :  unless  that  deep 
And  voiceless  terror,  which  doth  freeze  men's  thoughts 
Back  to  their  source,  and  mantle  its  pale  mien 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  503 

With  a  dull  hollow  semblance  of  repose, 
May  so  be  called. 

Pro.  There  are  such  calms  full  oft 

Preceding  earthquakes.     But  I  have  not  been 
So  vainly  schooled  by  fortune,  and  inured 
To  shape  my  course  on  peril's  dizzy  brink, 
That  it  should  *irk  my  spirit  to  put  on 
Such  guise  of  hushed  submissiveness  as  best 
May  suit  the  troubled  aspect  of  the  times. 

Raim.  Why,  then,  thou  art  welcome,  stranger,  to  the  land 
Where  most  disguise  is  needful. — He  were  bold 
Who  now  should  wear  his  thoughts  upon  his  brow 
Beneath  Sicilian  skies.     The  brother's  eye 
Doth  search  distrustfully  the  brother's  face  ; 
And  friends,  whose  undivided  lives  have  drawn 
From  the  same  past  their  long  remembrances. 
Now  meet  in  terror,  or  no  more ;  lest  hearts 
Full  to  o'erflowing,  in  their  social  hour, 
Should  pour  out  some  rash  word,  which  roving  winds 
Might  whisper  to  our  conquerors.    This  it  is, 
To  wear  a  foreign  yoke. 

Pro.  It  matters  not 

To  him  who  holds  the  mastery  o'er  his  spirit, 
And  can  suppress  its  workings,  till  endurance 
Becomes  as  nature.     We  can  tame  ourselves 
To  all  extremes,  and  there  is  that  in  \\iz 
To  which  we  cling  with  most  tenacious  grasp, 
Even  when  its  lofty  aims  are  all  reduced 
To  the  poor  common  privilege  of  breathing. 
— Why  dost  thou  turn  away  ? 

Raim.  What  wouldst  thou  with  me? 

I  deemed  thee,  by  the  ascendant  soul  which  lived 
And  made  its  throne  on  thy  commanding  brow 
One  of  a  sovereign  nature,  which  would  scorn 
So  to  abase  its  high  capacities 
For  aught  on  earth.     But  thou  art  like  the  rest. 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 

pro,  I  would  counsel  thee. 

Thou  must  do  that  which  men — ay,  valiant  men — 
Hourly  submit  to  do ;  in  the  proud  court, 
And  in  the  stately  camp,  and  at  the  board 
Of  midnight  revellers,  whose  flushed  mirth  is  all 
A  strife,  won  hardly.     Where  is  he  whose  heart 
Lies  bare,  through  all  its  foldings,  to  the  gaze 
Of  mortal  eye  ?    If  vengeance  wait  the  foe, 
Or  fate  the  oppressor,  'tis  in  depths  concealed 
Beneath  a  smiling  surface. — Youth,  I  say, 
Keep  thy  soul  down  !     Put  on  a  mask  !— 'tis  worn 
Alike  by  power  and  weakness,  and  the  smooth 
And  specious  intercourse  of  life  requires 
Its  aid  in  every  scene. 

Raim.  Away,  dissembler  I 


$04  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Life  hath  its  high  and  its  ignoble  tasks, 

Fitted  to  every  nature.     Will  the  free 

And  royal  eagle  stoop  to  learn  the  arts 

By  which  the  serpent  wins  his  spell-bound  prey  ? 

It  is  because  I  will  not  clothe  myself 

In  a  vile  garb  of  coward  semblances,       . 

That  now,  e'en  now,  I  struggle  with  my  heart, 

To  bid  what  most  I  love  a  long  farewell, 

And  seek  my  country  on  some  distant  shore, 

Where  such  things  are  unknown  ! 

Pro.  (exultingly} .  Why,  this  is  joy : 

After  a  long  conflict  with  the  doubts  and  fears, 
And  the  poor  subtleties,  of  meaner  minds, 
To  meet  a  spirit,  whose  bold  elastic  wing 
Oppression  hath  not  crushed.     High-hearted  youth, 
Thy  father,  should  his  footsteps  e'er  again 
Visit  these  shores — — 

Raim.  My  father !  what  of  him  ? 

Speak !  was  he  known  to  thee  ? 

Pro.  In  distant  lands 

With  him  I've  traversed  many  a  wild,  and  looked 
On  many  a  danger  ;  and  the  thought  that  thou 
Wert  smiling  then  in  peace,  a  happy  boy, 
Oft  through  the  storm  hath  cheered  him. 

Raim.  Dost  thou  deem 

That  still  he  lives  !     Oh  !  if  it  be  in  chains, 
In  woe,  in  poverty's  obscurest  cell, 
Say  but  he  lives — and  I  will  track  his  steps 
E'en  to  earth's  verge  ! 

Pro.  It  may  be  that  he  lives, 

Though  long  his  name  hath  ceased  to  be  a  word 
Familiar  in  man's  dwellings.     But  its  sound 
May  yet  be  heard  !     Raimond  di  Procida, 
Rememberest  thou  thy  father  ? 

Raim.  From  my  mind 

His  form  hath  faded  long,  for  years  have  passed 
Since  he  went  forth  to  exile  :  but  a  vague, 
Yet  powerful  image  of  deep  majesty, 
Still  dimly  gathering  round  each  thought  of  him, 
Doth  claim,  instinctive  reverence  ;  and  my  love 
For  his  inspiring  name  hath  long  become 
Part  of  my  being. 

Pro.  Raimond  !  doth  no  voice 

Speak  to  thy  soul,  and  tell  thee  whose  the  arms 
That  would  enfold  thee  now  ?     My  son  1  my  son  ! 

Raim.  Father  !     Oh  God! — my  father  !     Now  I  know 
Why  my  heart  woke  before  thee  ! 

Pro.  Oh  !  this  hour 

Makes  hope  reality  ;  for  thou  art  all 
My  dreams  had  pictured  thee  ! 

Raim.  Yet  why  so  long 

E'en  as  a  stranger  hast  thou  crossed  my  paths, 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  50$ 


One  nameless  and  unknown  ? — and  yet  I  felt 
Each  pulse  within  me  thrilling  to  thy  voice. 

Pro.  Because  I  would  not  link  thy  fate  with  mine, 
Till  I  could  hail  the  dayspring  of  that  hope 
Which  now  is  gathering  round  us.     Listen,  youth  ! 

Thou  hast  told  me  of  a  subdued  and  scorned 
And  trampled  land,  whose  very  soul  is  bowed 
And  fashioned  to  her  chains  : — but  /tell  thte 
Of  a  most  generous  and  devoted  land, 
A  land  of  kindling  energies  ;  a  land 
Of  glorious  recollections  ! — proudly  true 
To  the  high  memory  of  her  ancient  kings, 
And  rising,  in  majestic  scorn,  to  cast 

Ifer  alien  bondage  oft" ! 
Raim.  And  where  is  this  ? 

Pro.  Here,  in  our  isle,  our  own  fair  Sicily  I 

Her  spirit  is  awake,  and  moving  on, 

In  its  deep  silence  mightier,  to  regain 

Her  place  amongst  *.he  nations  ;  and  the  hour 

Of  that  tremendous  effort  is  at  hand. 
Raim.  Can  it  be  thus  indeed  ?    Thou  pourest  new  life 

Through  all  my  burning  veins !     I  am  as  one 

Awakening  from  a  chill  and  death-like  sleep 

To  the  full  glorious  day. 

Pro.  Thou  shall  hear  more  ! 

Thou  shalt  hear  things  which  would— which  will,  arouse 

The  proud  free  spirits  of  our  ancestors 

E'en  from  their  marble  rest.     Yet  mark  me  well ! 

Be  secret  1—  for  along  my  destined  path 

I  yet  must  darkly  move.— Now,  follow  me, 

And  join  a  band  of  men,  in  whose  high  hearts 

Th°re  lies  a  nation's  strength. 

jfaim  My  noble  father  1 

Thy  words  have  given  me  all  for  which  I  pined— 

An  aim,  a  hope,  a  purpose !    And  the  blood 

Doth  rush  in  warmer  currents  through  my  veins, 

As  a  bright  fountain  from  its  icy  bonds 

By  the  quick  sun-stroke  freed. 
pro.  Ay,  this  is  well ! 

Such  natures  burst  men's  chains !— Now,  follow  me. 

{Exeunt 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.— Apartment  in  a  palate. 
ERIBERT,  CONSTANCE. 

Con.  Will  you  not  hear  me  ?    Oh  !  that  they  who  need 
Hourly  forgiveness— they  who  do  but  live 
While  mercy's  voice,  beyond  the  eternal  stars, 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Wins  the  great  Judge  to  listen,  should  be  thus, 
In  their  vain  exercise  of  pageant  power, 
Hard  and  relentless!     Gentle  brother,  yet 
'Tis  in  your  choice  to  imitate  that  heaven, 
Whose  noblest  joy  is  pardon. 

Eri.  'Tis  too  late. 

You  have  a  soft  and  moving  voice,  which  pleads 
With  eloquent  melody—  but  they  must  die. 

CJOIL  What  !  —  die  !  —  for  words?  —  for  breath,  which  leaves  no  trace 
To  sully  the  pure  air,  wherewith  it  blends, 
And  is,  being  uttered,  gone  ?     Why,  'twere  enough 
For  such  a  venial  fault  to  be  deprived 
One  little  day  of  man's  free  heritage, 
Heaven's  warm  and  sunny  light  !     Oh  !  if  you  deem  ' 
That  evil  harbors  in  their  souls,  at  least 
Delay  the  stroke,  till  guilt,  made  manifest, 
Shall  bid  stern  justice  wake. 

Eri.  I  am  not  one 

Of  those  weak  spirits,  that  timorously  keep  watch 
For  fair  occasions,  thence  to  borrow  hues 
Of  virtue  for  their  deeds.     My  school  hath  been 
Where  power  sits  crowned  and  armed.     And,  mark  me,  sister  I 
To  a  distrustful  nature  it  might  seem 
Strange,  that  your  lips  thus  earnestly  should  plead 
For  these  Sicilian  rebels.     O'er  my  being 
Suspicion  holds  no  power.    And  yet,  take  note  — 
I  have  said,  and  they  must  die. 

Con.  Have  you  no  fear  ? 

Eri,  Of  what  ?  —  that  heaven  should  fall  ? 

Con.  No  !  —  But  that  earth 
Should  arm  in  madness.     Brother  !  I  have  seen 
Dark  eyes  bent  on  you,  e'en  midst  festal  throngs, 
With  such  deep  hatred  settled  in  their  glance, 
My  heart  hath  died  within  me. 

Eri.  Am  I  then 

To  pause,  and  doubt,  and  shrink,  because  a  girl, 
A  dreaming  girl,  hath  trembled  at  a  look  ? 

Con.  Oh  !  looks  are  no  illusions,  when  the  soul, 
Which  may  not  speak  in  words,  can  find  no  way 
But  theirs  to  liberty  !     Have  not  these  men 
Brave  sons,  or  noble  brothers  ? 

Eri.  Yes  !  whose  name 

It  rests  with  me  to  make  a  word  of  fear  — 
A  sound  forbidden  midst  the  haunts  of  men. 

Con.  But  not  forgotten  !     Ah  !  beware,  beware 
—  Nay,  look  not  sternly  on  me.     There  is  one 
Of  that  devoted  band,  who  yet  will  need 
Years  to  be  ripe  for  death.     He  is  a  youth, 
A  very  boy,  on  whose  unshaded  cheek 
The  spring-time  glow  is  lingering.     'Twas  but  now 
His  mother  left  me,  with  a  timid  hope 
Just  dawning  in  her  breast  ;  and  I  —  I  dared 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  507 


To  foster  its  faint  spark.     You  smile  ! — Oh  !  ilien 
He  will  be  saved  ! 

Kri.  Nay,  I  but  smile  to  think 

What  a  fond  fool  is  Hope  !    She  may  be  taught 
To  deem  that  the  great  sun  will  change  his  course 
To  work  her  pleasure,  or  the  tomb  give  back 
Its  inmates  to  her  arms.     In  sooth,  'tis  strange ! 
Yet,  with  your  pitying  heart,  you  should  not  thus 
Have  mocked  the  boy's  sad  mother : — I  have  said — 
You  should  not  thus  have  mocked  her  ! — Now  farewell ! 

[/•:.»//  KRICERT. 

Con.    O  brother!  hard  of  heart  ! — for  deeds  like  these 
There  must  be  fearful  chastening,  if  on  high 
Justice  doth  hold  her  state.     And  I  must  tell 
Yon  desolate  mother  that  her  fair  young  son 
Is  thus  to  perish  !     Haply  the  dread  tale 
May  slay  her  too — for  heaven  is  merciful. 
—'Twill  be  a  bitter  task  !  [Exit  CONSTANCE. 

SCENE  II. — A  rttined  Tower,  surrounded  ly  Woods. 
PROCIDA,  VITTORIA. 

Pro.  Thy  vassals  are  prepared,  then  ? 

Vit.  Yes  ;   they  wait 

Thy  summons  to  their  task. 

Pro.  Keep  the  flame  bright, 

But  hidden  till  this  hour.     Wouldst  thou  dare,  lady, 
To  join  our  councils  at  the  night's  mid-watch, 
In  the  lone  cavern  by  the  rock-hewn  cross  ? 

Vit.   What  should  I  shrink  from  ? 

pr0f  Oh  !   the  forest  paths 

Are  dim  and  wild,  e'en  when  the  sunshine  streams 
Through  their  high  arches  ;  but  when  powerful  night 
Comes,  with  her  cloudy  phantoms,  and  her  pale 
Uncertain  moonbeams,  and  the  hollow  sounds 
Of  her  mysterious  winds  ;  their  aspect  then 
Is  of  another  and  more  fearful  world — 
A  realm  of  indistinct  and  shadowy  forms, 
Waking  strange  thoughts  almost  too  much  for  this— 
Our  frail  terrestrial  nature. 

Vit.  Well  I  know 

All  this,  and  more.     Such  scenes  have  been  the  abodes 
Where  through  the  silence  of  my  soul  have  passed 
Voices,  and  visions  from  the  sphere  of  those 
That  have  to  die  no  more  !     No,  doubt  it  not ! 
If  such  unearthly  intercourse  hath  e'er 
Been  granted  to  our  nature,  'tis  to  hearts 
Whose  love  is  with  the  dead.     They,  they  alone 
Unmaddened  could  sustain  the  fearful  joy 
And  glory  of  its  trances  !     At  the  hour 
Which  makes  guilt  tremulous,  and  peoples  earth 


So8 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


And  air  with  infinite  viewless  multitudes, 
I  will  be  with  thee,  Procida. 

Pro.  Thy  presence 

Will  kindle  nobler  thoughts,  and  in  the  souls 
Of  suffering  and  indignant  men,  arouse 
That  which  may  strengthen  our  majestic  cause 
With  yet  a  deeper  power.     Knowest  thou  the  spot  ? 

Vit.  Full  well.     There  is  -no  scene  so  wild  and  lone, 
In  these  dim  woods,  but  I  have  visited 
Its  tangled  shades. 

Pro.  At  midnight,  then,  we  meet. 

[Exit  PROCIDA. 

Vit.  Why  should  I  fear  ?    Thou  wilt  be  with  me,  thou, 
The  immortal  dream  and  shadow  of  my  soul, 
Spirit  of  him  I  love  !  that  meetest  me  still 
In  loneliness  and  silence  ;  in  the  noon 
Of  the  wild  night,  and  in  the  forest  depths, 
Known  but  to  me  ;  for  whom  thou  givest  the  winds 
And  sighing  leaves  a  cadence  of  thy  voice, 
Till  my  heart  faints  with  that  o'erthrilling  joy ! 
— Thou  wilt  be  with  me  there,  and  lend  my  lips 
Words,  fiery  words,  to  flush  dark  cheeks  with  shame 
That  thou  art  unavenged  !  \Exit  VITTORIA 

SCENE  III. — A  Chapdwith  a  Monument,  on  which  is  laid  a 
sword. — Moonlight, 

PROCIDA,  RAIMOND,  MONTALBA. 

Man    And  know  ye  not  my  story  ? 

Pro.  In  the  lands 

Where  I  have  been  a  wanderer,  your  deep  wrongs 
Were  numbered  with  our  country's  ;  but  their  tale 
Came  only  in  faint  echoes  to  mine  ear. 
I  would  fain  hear  it  now. 

Mon.  Hark  !  while  you  spoke, 

There  was  a  voice-like  murmur  in  the  breeze, 
Which  even  like  death  came  o'er  me.     'Twas  a  night 
Like  this,  of  clouds  contending  with  the  moon, 
A  night  of  sweeping  winds,  of  rustling  leaves, 
And  swift  wild  shadows  floating  o'er  the  earth, 
Clothed  with  a  phantom  life,  when,  after  years 
Of  battle  and  captivity,  I  spurred 
My  good  steed  homewards.     Oh  !  what  lovely  dreams 
Rose  on  my  spirit  1     There  were  tears  and  smiles, 
But  all  of  joy !     And  there  were  bounding  steps, 
And  clinging  arms,  whose  passionate  clasp  of  lovv 
Doth  twine  so  fondly  round  the  warrior's  neck 
When  his  plumed  helm  is  doffed.— Hence,  feeble  thought' 
—I  am  sterner  now,  yet  once  such  dreams  were  mine  ! 

Raim.  And  were  they  realized? 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  509 


Man.  Youth  !  Ask  me  not, 

But  listen  !     I  drew  near  my  own  fair  home — 
There  was  no  light  along  its  walls,  no  sound 
Of  bugle  pealing  from  the  watch-tower's  height 
At  my  approach,  although  my  trampling  steed 
Maat  the  earth  ring,  yet  the  wide  gates  were  thrown 
All  open.     Then  my  heart  misgave  me  first, 
And  on  the  threshold  of  my  silent  hall 
I  paused  a  moment,  and  the  wind  swept  by 
With  the  same  deep  and  dirge-like  tone,  which  pierced 
My  soul  e'en  now !     I  called — my  struggling  voice 
Gave  utterance  to  my  wife's,  my  children's  names. 
They  answered  not.     I  roused  my  failing  strength. 
And  wildly  rushed  within. — And  they  were  there. 

R'lim.  And  was  all  well  ? 

Afon  Ay,  well ' — for  death  is  well: 

And  they  were  all  at  rest  !     I  see  them  vet, 
Pale  in  their  innocent  beauty,  which  had  failed 
To  stay  the  assassin's  arm ! 

Raim  Oh,  righteous  heaven  I 

Who  had  done  this  ? 

Man.  Who? 

Pro.  Canst  thou  question,  what 

Whom  hath  the  earth  to  perpetrate  such  deeds, 
In  the  cold-blooded  revelry  of  crime, 
But  those  whose  yoke  is  on  us? 

Raim.  Man  of  woe  ! 

What  words  hath  pity  for  despair  like  thine  ? 

Man    Pity  1 — fond  youth  ! — My  soul  disdains  the  grief 
Which  cloth  unbosom  its  deep  secrecies 
To  ask  a  vain  companionship  of  tears, 
And  so  to  be  relieved  I 

Pro  For  woes  like  these 

There  is  no  sympathy  but  vengeance. 

flfon.  None  I 

Therefore  I  brought  you  hither,  that  your  hearts 
Might  catch  (he  spirit  of  the  scene  !     Look  round  ! 
We  are  in  the  awful  presence  of  the  dead; 
Within  yon  tomb  they  sleep,  whose  gentle  blood 
Weighs  down  the  murderer's  soul.     They  sleep! — but  I 
Am  wakeful  o'er  their  dust  1     I  laid  my  sword, 
Without  its  sheath,  on  their  sepulchral  stone, 
As  on  an  altar  ;  and  the  eternal  stars, 
And  heaven,  and  night  bore  witness  to  my  vow, 
No-  more  to  wield  it,  save  in  one  great  cause — 
The  vengeance  of  the  grave  I     And  now  the  hour 
Of  that  atonement  comes! 

{He  takes  the  sword  from  the  tomb. 

Raim.  My  spirit  burns  I 
And  my  full  heart  almost  to  bursting  swells 
— Oh,  for  the  day  of  battle ! 

fro.  Raimond,  they 


510  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Whose  souls  are  dark  with  guiltless  blood  must  die, 
But  not  in  battle. 

Ram.  How,  my  father  ? 

Pro.  No ! 

Look  on  that  sepulchre,  and  it  will  teach 
Another  lesson.     But  the  appointed  hour 
Advances.     Thou  wilt  join  our  chosen  band, 
Noble  Montalba  ? 

Mon.  Leave  me  for  a  time, 

That  I  may  calm  my  soul  by  intercourse 
tVith  the  still  dead,  before  1  mix  with  men 
And  with  their  passions.     I  have  nursed  for  years, 
In  silence  and  in  solitude,  the  flame 
Which  doth  consume  me ;  and  it  is  not  used 
Thus  to  be  looked  or  breathed  on.     Procida! 
I  would  be  tranquil — or  appear  so — ere 
I  join  your  brave  confederates.     Through  my  heart 
There  struck  a  pang — but  it  will  soon  have  passed. 

Pro.  Remember  !• — in  the  cavern  by  the  cross. 
Now  follow  me,  my  son. 

•  [Exeunt  PROCIDA  and  RAIMOND. 

Mon.  (after  a  pause,  leaning  on  the  tomb.")  Said  he 
"  My  son  ?  "     Now,  why  should  this  man's  life 
Go  down  in  hope,  thus  resting  on  a  son, 
And  I  be  desolate  ?     How  strange  a  sound 
Was  that — "  my  son  !  "     I  had  a  boy,  who  might 
Have  worn  as  free  a  soul  upon  his  brow 
As  doth  this  youth.     Why  should  the  thought  of  him 
Thus  haunt  me  ?     When  I  tread  the  peopled  ways 
Of  life  again,  I  shall  be  passed  each  hour 
By  fathers  with  their  children,  and  I  must 
Learn  calmly  to  look  on.     Methinks  'twere  now 
A  gloomy  consolation  to  behold 
All  men  bereft  as  I  am  !     But  away, 
Vain  thoughts  ! — One  task  is  left  for  blighted  hearts, 
And  it  shall  be  fulfill'd.  |  Exit  MONTALBA 

SCENE  IV. — Entrance  of  a  cave,  surrounded  by  Rocks  and  Forests. 
A  rude  Cross  seen  among  the  Rocks. 

PROCIDA,  RAIMOND. 

Pro.  And  is  it  thus,  beneath  the  solemn  skies 
Of  midnight,  and  in  solitary  caves, 
Where  the  wild  forest  creatures  make  their  lair— 
Is't  thus  the  chiefs  of  Sicily  must  hold 
The  councils  of  their  country  ? 

Raim.  Why,  such  scenes 

In  their  "primeval  majesty,  beheld 
Thus  by  faint  starlight,  and  the  partial  glare 
Of  the  red-streaming  lava,  will  inspire 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  511 


Far  deeper  thoughts  than  pillared  halls,  wherein 
Statesmen  hold  weary  vigils.     Are  we  not 
O'ershadowed  by  that  Etna,  which  of  old 
With  its  dread  prophecies,  hath  struck  dismay 
Through  tyrants'  hearts,  and  bade  them  seek  ?.  home 
In  other  c);mes  ?     Hark !  from  its  depths,  e'en  now, 
What  hollow  moans  are  sent  I 

Enter  MONTALBA,  GuiDO,  and  other  SICILIANS. 

Pro.  Welcome,  my  brave  associates  ! — We  can  share 
The  wolf's  wild  freedom  here  !  The  oppressor's  haunt 
Is  not  midst  rocks  and  caves.  Are  we  all  met  ? 

Sicilians.  All,  all ! 

Pro.  The  torchlight,  swayed  by  every  gust, 

But  dimly  shows  your  features. — Where  is  he 
Who  from  his  battles  had  returned- to  breathe 
Once  more  without  a  corslet,  and  to  meet 
The  voices  and  the  footsteps  and  the  smiles 
Blent  with  his  dreams  of  home  ?    Of  that  dark  tale 
The  rest  is  known  to  vengeance  !     Art  thou  here, 
With  thy  deep  wrongs,  and  resolute  despair. 
Childless  Montalba  ? 

Man.  (advancing)  He  is  at  thy  side. 
Call  on  that  desolate  father  in  the  hour 
When  his  revenge  is  nigh. 

pro,  Thou,  too,  come  forth, 

From  thine  own  halls  an  exile  !     Dost  thou  make 
The  mountain-fastnesses  thy  dwelling  still, 
While  hostile  banners  o'er  thy  rampart  walls 
Wave  their  proud  blazonry  ? 

First  Sicilian.  Even  so.     I  stood 

Last  night  before  my  own  ancestral  towers 
An  unknown  outcast,  whi'.e  the  tempest  beat 
On  my  bare  head.     What  recked  it  ?     There  was  Joy 
Within,  and  revelry  ;  the  festive  lamps 
Were  streaming  from  each  turret,  and  gay  songs 
I'  the  stranger's  tongue  made  mirth      They  little  deem«d 
Who  heard  their  melodies  !     But  there  are  thoughts 
Best  nurtured  in  the  wild  ;  there  are  dread  vows 
Known  to  the  mountain-echoes.     Procida  ! 
Call  on  the  outcast,  when  revenge  is  nigh. 

Pro   I  knew  a  young  Sicili  n— one  whose  heart 
Should  be  all  fire.     On  that  most  guilty  day 
When  with  our  martyred  Conradm,  the  flower 
Of  the  land's  knighthood  perished ;  he  of  whom 
I  speak,  a  weeping  boy,  whose  innocent  tears 
Melted  a  thousand  hearts  that  dared  not  aid, 
Stood  by  the  scaffold  with  extended  arms, 
Calling  upon  his  father,  whose  last  look 
Turned  full  on  him  its  parting  agony. 
The  father's  blood  gushed  o'er  him  !  and  the  boy 


THE  VESPER  OF  PALERMO. 


Then  dried  his  tears,  and  with  a  kindling  eye. 
And  a  proud  flush  on  his  young  cheek,  louked  up 
To  the  bright  heaven.  —  Doth  he  remember  still 
That  bitter  hour  ? 

Second  Sicilian.    He  bears  a  sheathless  sword  ! 
—  Call  on  the  orphan  when  revenge  is  nigh. 

Pro.  Our  band  shows  gallantly  —  but  there  are  men 
Who  should  be  with  us  now,  had  they  not  dared 
In  some  wild  moment  of  festivity 
To  give  their  ful1  hearts  way,  and  breathe  a  wish 
For  freedom  !  —and  some  traitor—  it  might  be 
A  breeze  perchance  —  bore  the  forbidden  sound 
To  Eribert  :  so  they  must  die  —  unless 
Fate  (who  at  times  is  wayward)  should  select 
Some  other  victim  first  !     But  have  they  not 
Brothers  or  sons  among  us  ? 

Gut.  Look  on  me  ! 

I  have  a  brother  —  a  young  high-souled  boy, 
And  beautiful  as  a  sculptor's  dream,  with  brow 
That  wears  amidst  its  dark  rich  curls,  the  stamp 
Of  inborn  nobleness.     In  truth,  he  is 
A  glorious  creature  !     But  his  doom  is  sealed 
With  theirs  of  whom  ye  spoke  ;  and  I  have  knelt 
Ay,  scorn  me  not  !  'twas  for  his  life  —  I  knelt 
E'en  at  the  viceroy's  feet,  and  he  put  on 
That  heartless  laugh  of  cold  malignity 
We  know  so  well,  and  spurned  me.     But  the  stain 
Of  shame  like  this  takes  blood  to  wash  it  off, 
And  thus  it  shall  be  cancelled  !    Call  on  me, 
When  the  stern  moment  of  revenge  is  nigh. 

Pro.  I  call  upon  thee  now  !    The  land's  high  soul 
Is  roused,  and  moving  onward,  like  a  breeze 
Or  a  swift  .i  unbeam,  kindling  nature's  hues 
To  deeper  life  before  it.     In  his  chains, 
The  peasant  dreams  of  freedom  !  —  Ay,  'tis  thus 
Oppression  fans  the  imperishable  flame 
With  most  unconscious  hands.     No  praise  be  hers 
For  what  she  blindly  works  I     When  slavery's  cup 
O'erflows  its  bounds,  the  creeping  poison,  meant 
To  dull  our  senses,  through  each  burning  vein 
Pours  fever,  lending  a  delirious  strength 
To  burst  man's  fetters.     And  they  shall  be  burst  ! 
I  have  hoped,  when  hope  seemed  frenzy  ;  but  a  powar 
Abides  in  human  will,  when  bent  with  strong 
Unswerving  energy  on  one  great  aim, 
To  make  and  rule  its  fortunes  !     I  have  been 
A  wanderer  in  the  fulness  of  my  years, 
A  restless  pilgrim  of  the  earth  and  seas, 
Gathering  the  generous  thoughts  of  other  lands, 
To  aid  our  holy  cause.     And  aid  is  near  : 
But  we  must  give  the  signal.     Now,  before 
Tbe  majesty  of  yon  pure  heaven,  whose  eye 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  513 

Is  on  our  hearts — whose  righteous  arm  befriends 
The  arm  that  strikes  for  freedom— speak  !  decree 
The  fate  of  our  oppressors. 

Mon.  Let  them  fall. 

When  dreaming  least  of  peril !— When  the  heart, 
Basking  in  sunny  pleasure,  doth  forget 
Thn  hate  may  smile,  but  sleeps  not.     Hide  the  sword 
With  a  thick  veil  of  myrtle  ;  and  in  halls 
Of  banqueting,  where  the  full  wine-cup  shines 
Red  in  the  festal  torchlight,  meet  we  there, 
And  bid  them  welcome  to  the  feast  of  death. 

Pro.    Thy  voice  is  low  and  broken,  and  thy  words 
Scarce  meet  our  ears 

Mon.  Why,  then,  I  thus  repeat 

Their  import.     Let  the  avenging  sword  burst  forth  ^ 

In  some  free  festal  hour — and  woe  to  him 
Who  first  shall  spare  ! 

Kaim  Must  innocence  and  guilt 

Perish  alike  ? 

Mon.  Who  talks  of  innocence  ? 

When  hath  their  hand  been  stayed  for  innocence  > 
Let  them  all  perish! — Heaven  will  choose  its  own 
Why  should  their  children  live  ?    The  earthquake  whelios 
Its  undistinguished  thousands,  making  graves 
Of  peopled  cities  in  its  path — and  this 
Is  heaven's  dread  justice — ay,  and  it  is  well ' 
Why  then  should  'Me  be  tender,  when  the  skies 
Deal  thus  with  man?     What  if  the  infant  bleed? 
Is  there  not  power  to  hush  the  mother's  pangs? 
What  if  the  youthful  bride  perchance  should  fall 
In  her  triumphant  beauty?    Should  we  pause' 
As  if  death  were  not  n\ercy  to  the  pangs 
Which  make  our  lives  the  records  of  our  woes  ? 
Let  them  all  perish !     And  if  one  be  found 
Amidst  our  band  to  stay  the  avenging  steel 
For  pity,  or  remorse,  or  boyish  love, 
Then  be  his  doom  as  theirs!  [A pause 

Why  gaze  ye  thus  ? 
Brethren,  what  means  your  silence  ! 

Sicilians.  Be  it  so  ! 

If  one  among  us  stay  the  avenging  steel 
For  lovt  or  pity,  be  his  doom  as  theirs  I 
Pledge  we  our  faith  to  this  1 

Raim.  (rushing  forward  indignantly.}  Our  faith  to  Ms? 
No !  I  but  dreamt  I  heard  it !     Can  it  be  ? 
My  countrymen,  my  father  ! — Is  it  thus 
That  freedom  should  be  won  ?     Awake  ! — awake 
To  loftier  thoughts  !     Lift  up,  exultingly, 
On  the  crowned  heights  and  to  the  sweeping  winds, 
Your  glorious  banner  I     Let  your  trumpet's  blast 
Make  the  tombs  thrill  with  echoes'     Call  aloud, 
Proclaim  from  all  your  hills,  the  land  shall  bear 


514  THE  VESPERS  OF  FATHER  MO. 

The  stranger's  yoke  no  longer !     What  is  he 

Who  carries  on  his  practised  lip  a  smile, 

Beneath  his  vest  a  dagger,  which  but  waits 

Till  the  heart  bounds  with  joy,  to  still  its  beatings? 

That  which  our  nature's  instinct  doth  recoil  from, 

And  our  blood  curdle  at — ay,  yours  and  mine — 

A  murderer  I     Heard  ye  ?     Shall  that  name  with  ours 

Go  down  to  after  days  ?     O  friends  !  a  cause 

Like  that  for  which  we  rise,  hath  made  bright  names 

Of  the  elder  time  as  rallying-worcls  to  men — 

Sounds  full  of  might  and  immortality  ! 

And  shall  not  ours  be  such  ? 

Man.  Fond  dreamer,  peace  ! 

Fame!     What  is  fame?     Will  our  unconscious  dust 
,       Start  into  thrilling  rapture  from  the  grave, 

At  the  vain  breath  of  praise  ?    I  tell  thee,  youth, 

Our  souls  are  parched  with  agonizing  thirst, 

Which  must  be  quenched  though  death  were  in  the  draught : 

We  must  have  vengeance,  for  our  foes  have  left 

No  other  joy  unblighted. 

Pro.  O,  my  son ! 

The  time  is  past  for  such  high  dreams  as  thine 
Thou  knowest  not  whom  we  deal  with :  knightly  faith 
And  chivalrous  honor  are  but  things  whereon 
They  cast  disdainful  pity.     We  must  meet. 
Falsehood  with  wiles,  and  insult  with  revenge 
And,  for  our  names — whate'er  the  deeds  by  which 
We  burst  our  bondage — is  it  not  enough 
That  in  the  chronicle  of  days  to  come, 
We,  through  a  bright  "  For  Ever,"  shall  be  called 
The  men  who  saved  their  country  ? 

Raim.  ,        Many  a  land 

Hath  bowed  beneath  the  yoke,  and  then  arisen 
As  a  strong  lion  rending  silken  bonds, 
And  on  the  open  field,  before  high  heaven, 
Won  such  majestic  vengeance  as  hath  made 
Its  name  a  power  on  earth.     Ay,  nations  own 
It  is  enough  of  glory  to  be  called 
The  children  of  the  mighty,  who  redeemed 
Their  native  soil — but  not  by  means  like  these. 

Man.  I  have  no  children.     Of  Montalba's  blood 
Not  one  red  drop  doth  circle  through  the  veins 
Of  ought  that  breathes !     Why,  what  have  /  to  do 
With  far  futurity  ?     My  spirit  lives 
But  in  the  past.     Away  I    when  thou  dost  stand 
On  this  fair  earth  as  doth  a  blasted  tree 
Which  the  warm  sun  revives  not,  then  return, 
Strong  in  thy  desolation  :  but  till  then, 
Thou  art  not  for  our  purpose  ;  we  have  need 
Of  more  unshrinking  hearts. 

Raim.  Montalba '  know 

',  I  shrink  from  crime  alone      Oh  !  if  my  voice 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  515 

Might  yet  have  power  among  you,  I  would  say, 
Associates,  leaders,  be  avenged  !  but  yet 
As  knights,  as  warriors! 

Man.  Peace  !    Have  we  not  born 

The  indelible  taint  of  contumely  and   chains  ? 
We  are  not  knights  and  warriors.     Our  bright  crests 
Have  been  defiled  and  trampled  to  the  earth. 
Boy  !   we  are  slaves — and  our  revenge  shall  be 
Deep  as  a  slave's  disgrace. 

Raim.  Why,  then,  farewell : 

L  leave  you  to  your  counsels.     He  that  still 
Would  hold  his  lofty  nature  undebased, 
And  his  name  pure,  were  but  a  loiterer  here. 

Pro.  And  is  it  thus  indeed  ? — dost  thou  forsake 
Our  cause,  my  son  ! 

Raim.  O,  father  1  what  proud  hopes 

This  hour  hath  blighted  !    Yet,  whate'er  betide, 
It  is  a  noble  privilege  to  look  up 
Fearless  in  heaven's  bright  face — and  this  is  mine. 
And  shall  be  still.  [Exit  RAIMOND. 

Pro.  He's  gone  !— Why,  let  it  be  1 

I  trust  our  Sicily  hath  many  a  son 
Valiant  as  mine      Associates !  'tis  decreed 
Our  foes  shall  perish.     We  have  but  to  name 
The  hour,  the  scene,  the  signal. 

Mon.  It  should  be 

In  the  full  city,  when  some  festival 
Hath  gathered  throngs,  and  lulled  infatuate  hearts 
To  brief  security.     Hark!  js  there  not 
A  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  on  the  breeze  ? 
We  are  betrayed. — Who  art  thou  ? 

VITTORIA  enters. 

Pro.  One  alone 

Should  be  thus  daring.     Lady,  lift  the  veil 
That  shades  thy  noble  brow. 

[She  raises  her  veil,  the  Sicilians  draw  back  with  respect. 

Sicilians.  The  affianced  bride 

Of  our  lost  king  ! 

Pro.  And  more,  Montalba;  know 

Within  this  form  there  dwells  a  soul  as  high 
As  warriors  in  their  battles  e'er  have  proved, 
Or  patriots  on  the  scaffold. 

Vit.  Valiant  men  ! 

I  come  to  ask  your  aid.     You  see  me,  one 
Whose  widowed  youth  had  all  been  consecrate 
To  a  proud  sorrow,  and  whose  life  is  held 
In  token  and  memorial  of  the  dead. 
Say,  is  it  meet  that  lingering  thus  on  earth, 
But  to  behold  one  great  atonement  made, 
And  keep  one  name  from  fading  in  men's  hearts, 
A  tyrant's  will  should  force  me  to  profane 


516  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Heaven's  altar  with  unhallowed  vows — and  live 

Stung  by  the  keen  unutterable  scorn 

Of  mv  own  bosom,  live — another's  bride  ? 

Sicilians.  Never !  oh,  never  1     Fear  not,  noble  lady 
Worthy  of  Conradin  ! 

Vit.  Yet  hear  me  still — 

ffis  bride,  that  Eribert's,  who  notes  our  tears 
With  his  insulting  eye  of  cold  derision. 
And.  could  he  pierce  the  depths  where  feeling  works. 
Would  number  e'en  our  agonies  as  crimes. 
— Say,  is  this  meet  ? 

Gui.  We  deemed  these  nuptials,  lady, 

Thy  willing  choice  ;  but  'tis  a  joy-to  find 
Thou  art  noble  still.     Fear  not ;  by  all  our  wrongs, 
This  shall  not  be. 

Pro  Vittoria.  thou  art  come 

To  ask  our  aid — but  we  have  need  of  thine. 
Know,  the  completion  of  our  high  designs 
Requires — a  festival  ;  and  it  must  be 
Thy  bridal  ! 

Vit.  Procida ! 

Pro.  Nay,  start  not  thus. 

'Tis  no  hard  task  to  bind  your  raven  ha'ir 
With  festal  garlands,  and  to  bid  the  song 
Rise,  and  the  wine-cup  mantle.     No — nor  yet 
To  meet  your  suitor  at  the  glittering  shrine, 
Where  death,  not  love,  awaits  him  I 

Vtt.  Can  my  soul 

Dissemble  thus  ?  • 

Pro.  We  have  no  other  means 

Of  winning  our  great  birth-right  back  from  those 
Who  have  usurped  it,  than  so  lulling  them 
Into  vain  confidence,  that  they  may  deem 
All  wrongs  forgot ;  and  this  may  be  best  done 
By  what  I  ask  of  thee. 

Mon.  Then  we  will  mix 

With  the  flushed  revellers,  making  their  gay  feast 
The  harvest  of  the  grave. 

Vit.  A  bridal  day  !  . 

— Must  it  be  so  ?    Then,  chiefs  of  Sicily, 
I  bid  you  to  my  nuptials  !  but  be  there 
With  your  bright  swords  unsheathed,  for  thus  alone 
My  guests  should  be  adorned. 

Pro.  And  let  thy  banquet 

Be  soon  announced ;  for  there  are  noble  men 
Sentenced  to  die,  for  whom  we  fain  would  purchase 
Reprieve  with  other  blood. 

Vit.  Be  it  then  the  day 

Preceding  that  appointed  for  their  doom. 

Gui.  My  brother  !  thou  shall  live  !     Oppression  boasts 
No  gift  of  prophecy ! — It  but  remains 
To  name  our  signal,  chiefs  1 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO  517 

Mon.  The  Vesper-bell ! 

Pro.  Ev£n  so — the  Vesper-bell,  whose  deep  toned  peal 
Is  heard  o'er  land  and  wave.     Part  of  our  band, 
Wearing  the  guise  of  antic  revelry, 
Shall  entei,  as  in  some  fantastic  pageant, 
The  halls  of  Eribert ;  and  at  the  hour 
Devoted  to  the  sword's  tremendous  task, 
I  follow. with  the  rest.     The  Vesper-bell  ! 
That  sound  like  wake  the  avenger ;  for  'tis  come, 
The  time  when  power  is  in  a  voice,  a  breath. 
To  burst  the  spell  which  bound  us.     But  the  night 
Is  waning,  with  her  stars,  which,  one  by  one 
Warn  us  to  part      Friends,  to  your  homes  ! — your  homes? 
That  name  is  yet  to  win.     Away !  prepare 
For  our  next  meeting  in  Palermo's  walls. 
The  Vesper-bell !  Remember  .' 

Sicilians.  Fear  us  not. 

The  Vesper-bell !  [Exeunt  omnes. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — Apartment  in  a  Palace. 
ERIBERT.  VITTORIA. 

Vit.  Speak  not  of  love — it  is  a  word  with  deep 
Strange  magic  in  its  melancholy  sound, 
To  summon  up  the  dead ;  and  they  should  rest, 
At  such  an  hour  forgotten.     There  are  things 
We  must  throw  from  us,  when  the  heart  would  gather 
Strength  to  fulfil  its  settled  purposes  ; 
Therefore,  no  more  of  love  !     But  if  to  robe 
This  form  in  bridal  ornaments — to  smile 
(I  can  smile  yet)  at  thy  gay  feast,  and  stand 
At  the  altar  by  thy  side ;— if  this  be  deemed 
Enough,  it  shall  be  done. 

£r°                                  My  fortune  s  star 
Doth  rule  the  ascendant  still  !  (Apart  )-H  not  of  love, 
Then  pardon,  lady,  that  I  speak  of  joy, 
And  with  exulting  heart 

ylt  There  is  no  joy  I 

—Who  shall  look  through  the  far  futurity, 
And,  as  the  shadowy  visions  of  events 
Develop  on  his  gaze,  midst  their  dim  throng, 
Dare,  with  oracular  mien,  to  POintM*  •»?.      , ... , 
"  This  will  bring  happiness  ? "     Who  shall  do  this  i 
-Who,  tho.i  and  I,  and  all  !    There's  One,  who  sits 
In  His  own  bright  tranquillity  enthroned. 
High  o'er  all  storms,  and  looking  far  beyon 


Si 8  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Their  thickest  clouds!  but  we,  from  whose  dull  eyes 
A  grain  of  dust  hides  the  great  sun — e'en  we  ' 
Usurp  his  attributes,  and  talk,  as  seers, 
Of  future  joy  and  grief ! 

Eri.  Thy  words  are  strange. 

Yet  will  I  hope  that  peace  at  length  shall  settle 
Upon  thy  troubled  heart,  and  add  soft  grace 
To  thy  majestic  beauty.     Fair  Vittoria ! 
Oh  !  if  my  cares 

Vit-  I  know  a  day  shall  come 

Of  peace  to  all      Even  from  my  darkened  spirit 
Soon  shall  each  restless  wish  be  exorcised 
Which  haunts  it  now,  and  I  shall  then  lie  down 
Serenely  to  repose.     Of  this  no  more. 
I  have  a  boon  to  ask. 

Eri  Command  my  power, 

And  deem  it  thus  most  honored 

Vit.  Have  I  then 

Soared  such  an  eagle  pitch,  as  to  command 
The  mighty  Eribert  ? — And  yet  'tis  meet  ; 
For  I  bethink  me  now,  I  should  have  worn 
A  froum  upon  this  forehead.     Generous  lord  ! 
Since  thus  you  give  me  freedom,  know,  there  is 
An  hour  I  have  loved  from  childhood,  and  a  sound 
Whose  tones,  o'er  earth  and  ocean  sweetly  bearing 
A  sense  of  deep  repose,  have  lulled  me  oft 
To  peace — which  is  forgetfulness;  I  mean 
The  Vesper-bell      I  pray  you  let  it  be 
The  summons  to  our  bridal      Hear  you  not  ? 
To  our  fair  bridal  I 

Eri.  Lady,  let  your  will 

Appo'int  each  circumstance.     I  am  too  blessed, 
Proving  my  homage  thus. 

Vit  Why,  then,  'tis  mine 

To  rule  the  glorious  fortunes  of  the  day, 
And  I  may  be  content      Yet  such  remains 
For  thought  to  brood  on,  and  I  would  be  left 
Alone  with  my  resolves.     King  Eribert ! 
(Whom  I  command  so  absolutely}  now 
Part  we  a  few  brief  hours  ;  and  doubt  not,  when 
I'm  at  thy  side  once  more,  but  I  shall  stand 
There— to  the  last ! 

Eri.  Your  smiles  are  troubled,  lady- 

May  they  ere  long  be  brighter!    Time  will  seem 
Slow  till  the  Vesper-bell 

Vit.  'Tis  lovers'  phrase 

To  say — Time  lags  ;  and  therefore  meet  for  you; 
But  with  an  equal  pace  the  hours  move  on, 
Whether  they  bear,  on  their  swift  silent  wing, 
Pleasure  or — fate. 

Eri.  Be  not  so  full. of  thought 

On  such  a  day.     Behold,  the  skies  themselves 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO  5,9 

Look  on  my  joy  with  a  triumphant  smile 
Unshadowed  by  a  cloud. 

Vit"  Tis  very  meet 

That  heaven  (which  loves  the  just)  should  wear  a  smile 
In  honor  of  his  fortunes      Now,  my  lord, 
Forgive  me  if  I  say  farewell  until 
The  appointed  hour. 

Eri-  Lady,  a  brief  farewell.     [Exeunt  tefaraUly 

SCENE  \\-The  Sea-shore,  .       • 

PROCIDA,  RAIMOND. 

Pro.   And  dost  thou  still  refuse  to  share  the  glory 
Of  this,  our  daring  enterprise  ? 

Raim.  Oh,  father ! 

I,  too,  have  dreamt  of  glory,  and  the  word 
Hath  to  my  soul  been  as  a  trumpet's  voice. 
Making  my  nature  sleepless      But  the  deeds 
Whereby  'twas  won — the  high  exploits,  whose  tale 
Kids  the  heart  burn,  were  of  another  cast 
Than  such  as  thou  requirest. 

Pro.  Every  deed 

I  lath  sanctity,  if  bearing  for  its  aim 
The  freedom  of  our  country  ;  and  the  sword 
Alike  is  honored  in  the  patriot's  hand, 
Searching,  'midst  warrior  hosts,  the  heart  which  gave 
Oppression  birth,  or  flashing  through  the  gloom 
Of  the  still  chamber,  o'er  its  troubled  couch, 
At  dead  of  night. 

Raim,  (turning away)-    There  is  no  path  but  one 
For  noble  natures. 

Pro.  Wouldst  thou  ask  the  man 

Who  to  the  earth  hath  dashed  a  nation's  chains. 
Rent  as  with  heaven's  own  lightning,  by  what  nit'ins 
The  glorious  end  was  won  ?     Go,  swell  the  acclaim! 
Bid  the  deliverer,  hail !  and  if  his  path 
To  that  most  bright  and  southern  destiny, 
Hath  led  o'er  trampled  thousands,  be  it  called 
A  stern  necessity,  but  not  a  crime ! 

Raim.  Father !  my  soul  yet  kindles  at  the  thought 
Of  nobler  lessons,  in  my  boyhood  learned. 
Even  from  thy  voice      The  high  remembrances 
Of  other  days  are  stirring  in  the  heart 
Where  thou  didst  plant  them;  and  they  speak  of  men 
Who  needed  no  vain  sophistry  to  gild 
Acts  that  would  bear  heaven's  light — and  such  be  mine  I 
O  father  I  is  it  yet  too  late  to  draw 
The  praise  and  blessing  of  all  valiant  hearts 
On  our  most  righteous  cause? 

Pro.  What  wouldst  thou  do? 

Ratm.  I  would  go  forth,  and  rouse  the  indignant  land 


520  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

To  generous  combat     Why  should  freedom  strike 

Mantled  with  darkness  ?     Is  there  not  more  strength 

Even  in  the  waving  of  her  single  arm 

Than  hosts  can  wield  against  her  ?     /  would  rouse 

That  spirit  whose  fire  doth  press  resistless  on 

To  its  proud  sphere — the  stormy  field  of  fight ! 

Pro.  Ay!  and  give  time  and  warning  to  the  foe 
To  gather  all  his  might !     It  is  too  late. 
There  is  a  work  to  be  this  eve  begun, 
,  When  rings  the  Vesper-bell ;  and,  long  before 
To-morrow's  sun  hath  reached,  i'  the  noonday  heaven. 
His  throne  of  burning  glory,  every  sound 
Of  the  Proven9al  tongue  within  our  walls, 
As  by  one  thunderstroke — (you  are  pale,  my  son) — 
Shall  be  forever  silenced ! 

Raim.  What !  such  sounds 

As  falter  on  the  lip  of  infancy, 
In  its  imperfect  utterance  ?  or  are  breathed 
By  the  fond  mother,  as  she  lulls  her  babe  ? 
Or  in  sweet  hymns,  upon  the  twilight  air 
Poured  by  the  timid  maid  ?     Must  all  alike 
Be  stilled  in  death  ?  and  wouldst  thou  tell  my  heart 
There  is  no  crime  in  this  ? 

Pro.  Since  thou  dost  feel 

Such  horror  of  our  purpose,  in  thy  power 
Are  means  that  might  avert  it. 

Raim  .     Speak  !  oh  speak ! 

Pro.    How  would  those  rescued  thousands  bless  thy  name 
Shouldst  thou  betray  us  ! 

Raim.  Father !  I  can  bear — 

Ay,  proudly  woo — the  keenest  questioning 
Of  thy  soul  gifted  eye,  which  almost  seems 
To  claim  a  part  of  heaven's  dread  royalty, 
— The  power  that  searches  thought. 

Pro  {after  a  pause).  Thou  hast  a  brow 

Clear  as  the  day — and  yet  I  doubt  thee,  Raimond  ! 
Whether  it  be  that  I  have  learned  distrust 
From  a  long  look  through  man's  deep-folded  heart; 
Whether  my  paths  have  been  so  seldom  crossed 
By  honor  and  fair  mercy,  that  they  seem 
But  beautiful  deceptions,  meeting  thus 
My  unaccustomed  gaze:  howe'er  it  be — 
I  doubt  thee !     See  thou  waver  not — take  heed. 
Time  lifts  the  veil  from  all  things !  [Exit  PROCIDA. 

Raim.  And  'tis  thus 

Youth  fades  from  off  our  spirit ;  and  the  robes 
Of  beauty  and  of  majesty,  wherewith 
We  clothed  our  idols,  drop!     Oh,  bitter  day ! 
When,  at  the  crushing  of  our  glorious  world, 
We  start,  and  find  men  thus!     Yet  be  it  so ! 
Is  not  my  soul  still  powerful  in  itself 
To  realize  its  dreams  ?    Ay,  shrinking  not 


THE   VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  $21 

From  the  pure  eye  of  heaven,  my  brow  may  well 

Undaunted  meet  my  father's      But  away  ! 

Thou  shall  be  saved,  sweet  Constance! — Love  is  yet 

Mightier  than  vengeance.  [Exit  RAIMOND. 

SCENE  III. — Gardens  of  a  Palace. 
CONSTANCE,  alone. 

Con.    There  was  a  time  when  my  thoughts  wandered  not 
Beyond  these  fairy  scenes ! — when  but  to  catch 
The  languid  fragrance  of  the  southern  breeze 
From  the  rich  flowering  citrons,  or  to  rest, 
Dreaming  of  some  wild  legend,  in  the  s'hade 
Of  the  dark  laurel  foliage,  was  enough 
Of  happiness.     How  have  these  calm  delights 
Fled  from  before  one  passion,  as  the  dews, 
The  delicate  gems  of  morning,  are  exhaled 
By  the  great  sun !  [RAIMOND  enters. 

Raimond !  oh  I  now  thou'rt  come — 
I  read  it  in  thy  look — to  say  farewell 
For  the  last  time— the  last ! 

Raim.  No,  best  beloved  I 

I  come  to  tell  thee  there  is  now  no  power 
To  part  us  but  in  death. 

Con.  I  have  dreamt  of  joy, 

But  never  aught  like  this.— Speak  yet  again! 

Say  we  shall  part  no  more  ! 
Raim.  No  more,  if  love 

Can  strive  with  darker  spirits,  and  he  is  strong 

In  his  immortal  nature!  all  is  changed 

Since  last  we  met.     My  father — keep  the  tale 

Secret  from  all,  and  most  of  all,  my  Constance, 

From  Eribert — my  father  is  returned  : 

I  leave  thee  not. 

Con.  Thy  father !  blessed  sound  ! 

Good  angels  be  his  guard !     Oh !  if  he  knew 

How  my  soul  clings  to  thine,  he  could  not  hate 

Even  a  Provencal  maid  \    Thy  father !— now 

Thy  soul  will  be  at  peace,  and  I  shall  see 

The  sunny  happiness  of  earlier  days 

Look  from  thy  brow  once  more !     But  how  is  this  ? 

Thine  eye  reflects  not  the  glad  soul  of  mine ; 

And  in  thy  look  is  that  which  ill  befits 

A  tale  of  joy. 

Raim  A  dream  is  on  my  soul. 

I  see  a  slumberer,  crowned  with  flowers,  and  smiling 

As  in  delighted  visions,  on  the  brink 

Of  a  dread  chasm  ;  and  this  strange  fantasy 

Hath  cast  so  deep  a  shadow  o'er  my  thoughts, 

I  cannot  but  be  sad. 

Con.  Why,  let  me  sing 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO- 


One  of  the  sweet  wild  strains  you  love  so  well, 
And  this  will  banish  it. 

Raim.  It  may  not  be. 

Oh  gentle  Constance  !  go  not  forth  to-day: 
Such  dreams  are  ominous. 

Con.  Have  you  then  forgot 

My  brother's  nuptial  feast  ?     I  must  be  one 
Of  the  gay  train  attending  to  the  shrine 
His  stately  bride.     In  sooth,  my  step  of  joy 
Will  print  earth  lightly  now. — What  fearest  thou,  love  ? 
Look  all  around  !  the  blue  transparent  skies, 
And  sunbeams  pouring  a  more  buoyant  life 
Through  each  glad  thrilling  vein,  will  brightly  chase 
All  thought  of  evH.     Why,  the  very  air 
Breathes  of  delight !     Through  all  its  glowing  realm 
Doth  music  blend  with  fragrance  ;  and  e'en  here 
The  city's  voice  of  jubilee  is  heard, 
Till  each  light  leaf  seems  trembling  unto  sounds 
Of  human  joy ! 

Raim.  There  lie  far  deeper  things — 

Things  that  "may  darken  thought  for  life,  beneath 
That  city's  festive  semblance.     I  have  passed 
Through  the  glad  multitudes,  and  I  have  marked 
A  stern  intelligence  in  weeping  eyes, 
Which  deemed  their  flash  unnoticed,  and  a  quick, 
Suspicious  vigilance,  too  intent  to  clothe 
Its  mien  with  carelessness;. and  now  and  then, 
A  hurrying  start,  a  whisper,  or  a  hand 
Pointing  by  stealth  to  some  one,  singled  out 
Amidst  the  reckless  throng.     O'er  all  is  spread 
A  mantling  flush  of  revelry,  which  may  hide 
Much  from  unpractised  eyes  ;  but  lighter  signs 
Have  been  prophetic  oft. 

Con.  I  tremble  ! — Raimond  ! 

What  may  these  things  portend? 

Raim.  It  was  a  day 

Of  festival  like  this  ;  the  city  sent 
Up  through  her  sunny  firmament  a  voice 
Joyous  as  now  ;  when,  scarcely  heralded 
By  one  deep  moan,  forth  from  his  cavernous  depths 
The  earthquake  burst  ;  and  the  wide  splendid  scene 
Became  one  chaos  of  all  fearful  things, 
Till  the  brain  whirled,  partaking  the  sick  motion 
Of  rocking  palaces. 

Con.  And  then  didst  thou, 

My  noble  Raimond  !  through  the  dreadful  paths 
Laid  open  by  destruction,  past  the  chasms, 
Whose  fathomless  clefts,  a  moment's  work,  had  given 
One  burial  unto  thousands,  rush  to  save 
Thy  trembling  Constance  !  she  who  lives  to  bless 
Thy  generous  love,  that  still  the  breath  of  heaven 
Wafts  gladness  to  her  soul ! 


THE   I' ESTERS  OF  PALERMO.  523 


I  leaven  ! — heaven  is  just ! 
And  being  so,  must  guard  thee,  sweet  one,  still. 
Trust  none  beside.     Oh  !  the  omnipotent  skies 
Make  their  wrath  manifest,  but  insidious  man 
Doth  compass  those  he  hates  with  secret  snares, 
Wherein  lies  fate.     Know,  danger  walks  abroad, 
Masked  as  a  reveller.     Constance !  oh !  by  all 
Our  tried  affection,  all  the  vows  which  bind 
Our  hearts  together,  meet  me  in  these  bowers, 
Here,  I  adjure  thee,  meet  me,  when  the  bell 
Doth  sound  for  vesper  prayer  I 

Con  And  knowest  thou  not 

'Twill  be  the  bridal  hour  ? 

Rnitn.  It  will  not,  love  ! 

That  hour  will  bring  no  bridal !    Naught  of  this 
To  human  ear  ;  but  speed  thou  hither — fly, 
When  evening  brings  that  signal      Dost  thou  heed  ? 
This  is  no  meeting  by  a  lover  sought 
To  breathe  fond  tales,  and  make  the  twilight  groves 
And  stars  attest  his  vows  ;  deem  thou  not  so, 
Therefore  denying  it !    I  tell  thee,  Constance  I 
If  thou  wouldst  save  me  from  such  fierce  despair 
As  falls  on  man,  beholding  all  he  loves 
Perish  before  him,  while  his  strength  can  but 
Strive  with  his  agony — thou'lt  meet  me  then. 
Look  .on  me,  love  I — I  am  not  oft  so  moved — 
Thou'lt  meet  me  ? 

Con.  Oh !  what  mean  thy  words  ?    If  then 

My  steps  are  free, — I  will.     He  thou  but  calm. 

Raim    Be  calm  !— there  is  a  cold  and  sullen  calm, 
And  were  my  wild  fears  made  realities, 
It  might  be  mine  ;  but,  in  this  dread  suspense — 
This  conflict  of  all  terrible  fantasies, 
There  is  no  calm.     Yet  fear  thou  not,  dear  love ! 
I  will  watch  o  er  thee  still.    And  now,  farewell 
Until  that  hour ! 

Con.  My  Raimond,  fare  thee  well.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  \\.-Room  in  Ike  Citadel  of  Palermo. 
ALBERTI,  DE  Couci. 

De  Cou    Saidst  thou  this  night  ? 

Alb.  This  very  night— and  lo  ! 

E'en  now  the  sun  declines. 

De  Cou.  What !  are  they  armed  ? 

All>.    All  armed,  and  strong  in  vengeance  and  despair. 

De  Cou.    Doubtful  and  strange  the  tale  !    Why  was  not  this 
revealed  before  ? 

AH,  Mistrust  me  not,  my  lord  I 

That  stern  and  jealous  Procida  hath  kept 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


O'er.  all  my  steps  (as  though  he  did  suspect 

The  purposes,  which  oft  his  eye  hath  sought 

To  read  in  mine)  a  watch  so  vigilant, 

I  knew  not  how  to  warn  thee,  though  for  this 

Alone  I  mingled  with  his  bands  —  to  learn 

Their  projects  and  their  strength.     Thou  knowest  my  faith     . 

To  Anjou's  house  full  well. 

De  Cou.  How  may  we  now 

Avert  the  gathering  storm  ?    The  viceroy  holds 
His  bridal  feast,  and  all  is  revelry, 
'Twas  a  true-boding  heaviness  of  heart 
Which  kept  me  from  these  nuptials. 

Alb.  Thou  thyself 

Mayst  yet  escape,  and  haply  of  thy  bands 
Rescue  a  part,  ere  long  to  wreak  full  vengeance 
Upon  these  rebels.     'Tis  too  late  to  dream 
Of  saving  Eribert.     E'en  shouldst  thou  rush 
Before  him  with  the  tidings,  in  his  pride 
And  confidence  of  soul,  he  would  but  laugh 
Thy  tale  to  scorn. 

De  Cou.  He  must  not  die  unwarned, 

Though  it  be  all  in  vain.     But  thou,  Alberti, 
Rejoin  thy  comrades,  lest  thine  absence  wake 
Suspicion  in  their  hearts.     Thou  hast  done  well, 
And  shall  not  pass  unguerdoned,  should  I  live 
Through  the  deep  horrors  of  the  approaching  night. 

Alb.   Noble  De  Couci,  trust  me  still,     Anjou     ' 
Commands  no  heart  more  faithful  than  Alberti's 

[Exit  ALBERTI. 

De  Cou.  The  grovelling  slave  !  —  And  yet  he  spoke  too 

true  ! 

For  Eribert,  in  blind  elated  joy, 
Will  scorn  the  warning  voice.     The  day  wanes  fast, 
And  through  the  city,  recklessly  dispersed, 
Unarmed  and  unprepared,  my  soldiers  revel, 
E'en  on  the  brink  of  fate.     1  must  away. 

[Exit  DE  Couci. 


SCENE  V. — A  Banqueting  Hall     Provencal  Nobles  assembled. 

fst  Noble.  Joy  be  to  this  fair  meeting  !    Who  hath  seen 
The  viceroy's  bride  ? 

id  Noble.  I  saw  her  as  she  passed 

The  gazing  throngs  assembled  in  the  city. 
'Tis  said  she  hath  not  left  for  years,  till  now, 
Her  castle's  wood-girt  solitude.     'Twill  gall 
These  proud  Srcilians  that  her  wide  domains 
Should  be  the  conqueror's  guerdon. 

•$d  ATMe.  'Twas  their  boast 

With  what  fond  faith  she  worshipped  still  the  name 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  525 

Of  the  boy  Conradin.     How  will  the  slaves 
Brook  this  new  triumph  of  their  lords  .' 

2d  Noble.  In  sooth, 

It  stings  them  to  the  quick.     In  the  full  streets 
They  mix  with  our  Provcn9als,  and  assume 
A  guise  of  mirth,  but  it  sits  hardly  on  them. 
Twere  worth  a  thousand  festivals  to  see 
With  what  a  bitter  and  unnatural  effort 
They  strive  to  smile  ! 

ist  Noble.  Is  this  Vittoria  fair  ? 

2a  Noble.    Of  a  most  noble  mien  ;  but  yet  her  beauty 
Is  wild  and  awful,  and  her  large  dark  eye 
\\\  its  unsettled  glances  hath  strange  power, 
From  which  thou'lt  shrink  as  I  did. 

1st  Noble.  Hush  !  they  come. . 

Ente-  ERIBERT,  VITTORIA,  CONSTANCE,  and  others. 

Eri.    Welcome,  my  noble  friends  ! — there  must  not  lower 
One  clouded  brow  to  day  in  Sicily  ! 
— Behold  my  bride  ! 

Nobles.  Receive  our  homage,  lady ! 

Vit.  I  bid  all  welcome.     May  the  feast  we  offer 
Prove  worthy  of  such  guests  ! 

Eri.  Look  on  her  friends, 

And  say  if  that  majestic  brow  is  not 
Meet  for  a  diadem  ? 

Vit.  Tis  well,  my  lord ! 

When  memory's  pictures  fade— 'tis  kindly  done 
To  brighten  their  dimmed  hues  ! 

ist  Noble  (apart. )  Marked  you  her  glance  ? 

•zd  Noble  (apart.)  What  eloquent  scorn  was  there  ?     Yet  he, 

the  elate 
Of  heart,  perceives  it  not. 

£ri.  Now  to  the  feast ! 

Constance,  you  look  not  joyous.     I  have  said 
That  all  should  smile  to-day 

Con  Forgive  me,  brother  ; 

The  heart  is  wayward,  and  its  guard  of  pomp 
At  times  oppresses  it 

j?rt\  "fhy,  how  is  this  ? 

Con.  Voices  of  woe,  ^nd  prayers  of  anony, 
Unto  my  soul  have  risen,  r  id  left  sad  sounds 
There  echoing  still.     Vet  would  I  fain  H  gay, 
Sine,  'tis  your  wish.     I  truth,  I  should  have  been 
A  village  maid. 

Eri.  lint  being  as  you  are, 

Not  thus  ignobly  free,  command  your  looks 
(They  may  be  taught  obedience)  to  reflect 
The  aspect  of  the  ..me. 

Vit.  And  know,  fair  maid  ! 

That,  if  in  this  unskilled,  you  stand  alone 
Amidst  our  court  of  pleasure. 


526  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Eri.  To  the  feast  ! 

Now  let  the  red  wine  foam ! — There  should  be  mirth 
When  conquerors  revel !     Lords  of  this  fair  isle  ! 
Your  good  swords'  heritage,  crown  each  bowl,  and  pleg 
The  present  and  the  future  !  for  they  both 
Look  brightly  on  us.     Dost  thou  smile,  my  bride  ? 

Vit.   Yes,  Eribert ! — thy  prophecies  of  joy 
Have  taught  e'en  me  to  smile. 

Eri.  'Tis  well.     To-day 

I  have  won  a  fair  and  almost  royal  bride ; 
To-morrow  let  the  bright  sun  speed  his  course, 
To  waft  me  happiness  ! — my  proudest  foes 
Must  die  ;  and  then  my  slumber  shall  be  laid 
On  rose-leaves,  with  no  envious  folds  to  mar 
The  luxury  of  its  visions  ! — Fair  Vittoria, 
Your  looks  are  troubled ! 

Vit.  It  is  strange — but  oft, 

Midst  festal  songs  and  garlands,  o'er  my  soul 
Death  comes,  with  some  dull  image  !  as  you  spoke 
Of  those  whose  blood  is  claimed,  I  thought  for  them 
Who,  in  a  darkness  thicker  than  the  night 
E'er  wove  with  all  her  clouds,  have  pined  so  long, 
How  blessed  were  the  stroke  which  makes  them  things 
Of  that  invisible  world,  wherein,  we  trust, 
There  is  at  least  no  bondage  !     But  should  we 
From  such  a  scene  as  this,  where  all  earth's  joys 
Contend  for  mastery,  and  the  very  sense 
Of  life  is  rapture — should  we  pass,  I  say, 
At  once  from  such  excitements  to  the  void 
And  silent  gloom  of  that  which  doth  await  us — 
Were  it  not  dreadful  ? 

Eri.  Banish  such  dark  thoughts ! 

They  ill  beseem  the  hour. 

Vit.  There  is  no  hour 

Of  this  mysterious  world,  in  joy  or  woe,  . 

But  they  Beseem  it  well !     Why,  what  a  slight, 
Impalpable  bound  is  that,  the  unseen,  which  severs 
Being  from  death !     And  who  can  tell  how  near 
Its  misty  brink  he  stands  ? 

\st  Noble  (aside).  What  mean  her  words  ? 

2d  Noble.  There's  some  dark  mystery  here. 

Eri.  No  more  of  this  | 

Pour  the  bright  juice,  which  Etna's  glowing  vines 
Yield  to  the  conquerors  !     And  let  music's  voice 
Dispel  these  ominous  dreams  !     Wake,  harp  and  song 
Swell  out  your  triumph  ! 

A  Messenger  enters  bearing  a  letter. 

Mes.  Pardon,  my  good  lord  ! 

But  this  demands 

Eri.  What  means  thy  breathless  haste, 


THE   VESPEKS  OF  PALERMO.  527 

And  that  ill-boding  mien  ?    Away  !  such  looks, 
Befit  not  hours  like  these. 

Mes.  The  Lord  De  Couci 

Bade  me  bear  this,  and  say  'tis  fraught  with  tidings 
Of  life  and  death. 

Vit.  {hurriedly.']  Is  this  a  time  for  aught 
But  revelry  ?  My  lord,  these  dull  intrusions 
Mar  the  bright  spirit  of  the  festal  scene ! 

Eri.  (to  the  Messenger.}  Hence  !  tell  the  Lord  De  Couci.  w* 

will  talk 
Of  life  and  death  to-mofrow.  .    [Exit  Messenger. 

Let  there  be 

Around  me  none  but  joyous  looks  to-day, 
And  strains  whose  very  echoes  wake  to  mirth  1 

(A  band  of  conspirators  enter,  to  the  sound  of  music,  disguised  as 
shepherds,  bacchanals,  <Sff.) 

Eri.  What  forms  are  these  ?    What  means  this  antic  triumph  ? 

Vit.  Tis  but  a  rustic  pageant,  by  my  vassals 
Prepared  to  grace  our  bridal.     Will  you  not 
Hear  their  wild  music?    Our  Sicilian  vales 
Have  many  a  sweet  and  mirthful  melody, 
To  which  the  glad  heart  bounds.     Breathe  ye  some  strain 
Meet  for  the  time,  ye  sons  of  Sicily  1 

(One  of  the  Maskers  sings.) 

The  festal  eve,  o'er  earth  and  sky, 

In  her  sunset  robe  looks  bright, 
And  the  purple  hills  of  Sicily 

With  their  vineyards  laugh  in  light; 
From  the  marble  cities  of  her  plains, 

Glad  voices  mingling  swell ; 
— But  with  yet  more  loud  and  lofty  strains, 

They  shall  hail  the  Vesper-bell  ! 

Oh  !  sweet  its  tones,  when  the  summer  breeze 

Their  cadence  wafts  afar, 
To  float  o'er  the  blue  Sicilian  seas, 

As  they  gleam  to  the  first  pale  star  ! 
The  shepherd  greets  them  on  his  height, 

The  hermit  in  his  cell  ; 
— But  a  deeper  voice  shall  breathe  to-night 
In  the  sound  of  the  Vesper-bell ! 

\  The  Ml  rings. 

Eri.  It  is  the  hour  !     Hark,  hark  !— my  bride,  our  summons ! 
The  altar  is  prepared  and  crowned  with  flowers, 

That  wait 

Vit.  The  victim  !  [A  tumult  heard  without. 

PROCIDA  and  MONTALBA  enter,  ruith  others,  armed. 
pro  Strike  !  the  hour  is  com*-1 


528  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Vit.  Welcome,  avengers,  welcome  !     Now,  be  strong  ! 
[  The  conspirators  throw  off  their  disguise,  and  rush  -with 
their  swords  drawn  upon  the  Provenfals.     ERIBERT  is 
wounded,  and  falls. 

Pro.  Now  hath  fate  reached  thee  in  thy  mid  career, 
Thou  reveller  in  a  nation's  agonies  ! 

[  The  Provenfals  are  driven  off,  pursued  by  the  Sicilians. 

Con.  (supporting  ERIBERT  )  My  brother  !  oh,  my  brother ! 

Eri.  Have  I  stood 

A  leader  in  the  battle-fields  of  kings, 
To  perish  thus  at  last  ?     Ay,"  by  these  pangs, 
And  this  strange  chill,  that  heavily  doth  creep, 
Like  a  slow  poison,  through  my  curdling  veins, 
This  should  be — death  !     In  sooth,  a  dull  exchange 
For  the  gay  bridal  feast ! — 

Voices  (without.}  Remember  Conradin! — spare  none  !  spare 
none! 

Vit.  (throwing  off"  her  bridal  wreath  and  ornaments}    This 

is  proud  freedom  !     Now  my  soul  may  cast, 
In  generous  scorn,  her  mantle  of  dissembling 
To  earth  forever  !     And  it  is  such  joy, 
As  if  a  captive  from  his  dull  cold  cell 
Might  soar  at  once,  on  chartered  wing,  to  range 
The  realms  of  starred  infinity !     Away  I 
Vain  mockery  of  a  bridal  weath  !     The  hour 
For  which  stern  patience  ne'er  kept  watch  in  vain 
Is  come ;  and  I  may  give  my  bursting  heart 
Full  and  indignant  scope.     Now,  Eribert ! 
Believe  in  retribution  !     What  !  proud  man  ! 
Prince,  ruler,  conqueror  !  didst  thou  deem  Heaven  slept  ? 
"Or  that  the  unseen,  immortal  ministers, 
Ranging  the  world  to  note  e'en  purposed  crime 
In  burning  characters,  had  laid  aside 
Their  everlasting  attributes  for  thee  ?  " 
O  blind  security  !     He,  in  whose  dread  hand 
The  lightnings  vibrate,  holds  them  back  until 
The  trampler  of  this  goodly  earth  hath  reached 
His  pyramid-height  of  power  ;  that  so  his  fall 
May  with  more  fearful  oracles  make  pale 
Man's  crowned  oppressors ! 

Con.  Oh !  reproach  him  not ! 

His  soul  is  trembling  on  the  dizzy  brink 
Of  that  dim  world  where  passion  may  not  enter. 
Leave  him  in  peace. 

Voices  (without.)  Anjou  !  Anjou  ! — De  Couci,  to  the  rescue 
Eri.  (half  raising  himself }     My  brave  Provengals  1 

do  ye  combat  still  ? 

And  I  your  chief  am  here !  Now,  now  I  feel 
That  death  indeed  is  bitter  ! 

Vit.  Fare  thee  well! 

Thine  eyes  so  oft  with  their  insulting  smile 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  529 

Have  looked  on  man's  last  pangs,  thou  shouldst  by  this 

Be  perfect  how  to  die  1  [Exit  VITTORIA. 

RAIMOND  enters. 

Raitn.  Away,  my  Constance  I 

Now  i^  the  time  for  flight.     Our  slaughtering  bands 
Are  scattered  far  and  wide.     A  little  while 
And  tho-i  Fhalt  be  in  safety     Knowest  thou  not 
Tim  Ic—  sweet  vale,  where  dwells  the  holy  man, 
Anselmo? — Hr  whose  hermitage  is  reared 
Mid  some  old  temple's  ruins  ?     Round  the  spot 
His  name  hath  spread  so  pure  and  deep  a  charm, 
'Tis  hallowed  as  a  sanctuary,  wherein 
Thou  shall  securely  bide  till  this  wild  storm 
Have  spent  its  fury.     Haste  ! 

Con.  I  will  not  fly  I 

While  in  his  heart  there  is  one  throb  of  life, 
One  spark  in  his  dim  eyes,  I  will  not  leave 
The  brother  of  my  youth  to  perish  thus, 
Without  one  kindly'  bosom  to  sustain 
His  dying  head. 

Eri.                    The  clouds  are  darkening  round 
There  are  strange  voices  ringing  in  mine  ear 
That  summon  me — to  what !     But  I  have  been 
Used  to  command  !— Away  !  I  will  not  die 
But  on  the  field [He  diet 

Con.  (kneeling  by  him.}     O  Heaven  1  be  merciful 
As  thou  art  just !— for  he  is  now  where  naught 
But  mercy  can  avail  him. — It  is  past ! 

GUI  DO  enters  -with  his  sword  drawn. 
Gut.  (to  RAIMOND.)  I've  sought  thee  long— why  art  thou 

lingering  here  ? 

Haste,  follow  me  !     Suspicion  with  thy  name 
Joins  that  word — Traitor! 
Raim  Traitor !— Guido  ? 

Gui.  Y-8- 

Hast  thou  not  heard,  that,  with  his  men-at-arms, 

After  vain  conflict  with  a  people's  wrath, 

De  Couci  hath  escaped  ?     And  there  are  those 

Who  murmur  that  from  thee  the  warning  came 

Which  saved  him  from  our  vengeance.     But  e'en  yet, 

In  the  red  current  of  Provencal  blood, 

That  doubt  may  be  effaced-     Draw  thy  good  sword, 

And  follow  me  ! 

Raim.  And  thou  couldst  doubt  me,  Guidol 

'Tis  come  to  thia  '—Away  !  mistrust  me  still 
I  will  not  stain  my  sword  with  deeds  like  thine. 
Thou  knowest  me  not! 

Gui,  Raimond  di  Procida  !— 

If  thou  art  he  whom  once  I  deemed  so  noble — 
Call  me  thy  friend  no  more  ! 


530  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Raim.  (after  a  pause.)  Rise,  dearest,  rise  ! 

Thy  duty's  task  hath  nobly  been  fulfilled, 
E'en  in  the  face  of  death  ;  but  all  is  o'er, 
And  this  is  now  no  place  where  nature's  tears 
In  quiet  sanctity  may  freely  flow. 
— Hark  !  the  wild  sounds  that  wait  on  fearful  deeds 
Are  swelling  on  the  winds,  as  the  deep  roar 
Of  fast-advancing  billows  ;  and  for  thee 
I  shame  not  thus  to  tremble. — Speed!  oh,  speed  1  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — A  Street  in  Palermo 
PROCIDA  enters. 

Pro.  How  strange  and  deep  a  stillness  loads  the  air, 
As  with  the  power  of  midnight !     Ay,  where  death 
Hath  passed,  there  should  be  silence.     But  this  hush 
Of  nature's  heart,  this  breathlessness  of  all  things, 
Doth  press  on  thought  too  heavily,  and  the  sky, 
With  its  dark  robe  of  purple  thunder-clouds, 
Brooding  in  solemn  masses  o'er  my  spirit, 
Weighs  like  an  omen  I     Wherefore  should  this  be  ? 
Is  not  our  task  achieved — the  mighty  work 
Of  our  deliverance  ?     Yes ;  I  should  be  joyous  : 
But  this  our  feeble  nature,  with  its  quick 
Instinctive  superstitions,  will  drag  down 
The  ascending  soul.    And  I  have  fearful  bodings 
That  treachery  lurks  amongst  iis. — Raimond  !  Raimond ! 
Oh,  guilt  ne'er  made  a  mien  like  his  its  garb  ! 
It  cannot  be  ! 

MoNTALBA,  GuiDO,  and  other  Sicilians  enter. 

Pro.  Welcome!  we  meet  in  joy! 

Now  may  we  bear  ourselves  erect,  tesuming 
The  kingly  port  of  freemen  I     Who  shall  dare, 
After  this  proof  of  slavery's  dread  recoil, 
To  weave  us  chains  again  ? — Ye  have  done  well. 

Mon.     We  have  done  well.    There  needs  no  choral  song, 
No  shouting  multitudes,  to  blazon  forth 
Our  stern  exploits.     The  silence  of  our  foes 
Doth  vouch  enough,  and  they  are  laid  to  rest, 
Deep  as  the  sword  could  make  it.     Yet  onr  task 
Is  still  but  half  achieved,  since  with  his  bands 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO  •     531 

De  Couci  hath  escaped,  and  doubtless  leads 
Their  footsteps  to  Messina,  where  our  foes 
Will  gather  all  their  strength      Determined  hearts 
And  deeds  to  startle  earth  are  yet  required 
To  make  the  mighty  sacrifice  complete  — 
Where  is  thy  son  ? 

Pro.  I  know  not.     Once  last  night 

He  crossed  my  path,  and  with  one  stroke  beat  down 
A  sword  just  raised  to  smite  me,  and  restored 
My  own,  which  in  that  deadly  strife  had  been 
Wrenched  from  my  grisp ;  but  when  I  would  have  pressed 

him 

To  my  exulting  bosom,  he  drew  back, 
And  with  a  sad,  and  yet  a  scornful  smile, 
Full  of  strange  meaning,  left-me.     Since  that  hour 
I  have  not  seen  him.     Wherefore  didst  thou  ask  ? 

Mon.   It  matters  not     We  have  deep  things  to  speak  of. 
Knowest  thou  that  we  have  traitors  in  our  councils  ? 

Pro    I  know  some  voice  in  secret  must  have  warned 
De  Couci,  or  his  scattered  bands  had  ne'er 
So  soon  been  marshalled,  and  in  close  array 
Led  hence  as  from  the  field.     Hast  thou  heard  aught 
That  may  develop  this  ? 

Mon.  The  guards  we  set 

To  watch  the  city  gates,  have  seized,  this  morn, 
One  whose  quick  fearful  glance,  and  hurried  step, 
Betrayed  his  guilty  purpose.     Mark  1   he  bore 
(Amidst  the  tumult,  deeming  that  his  flight 
Might  all  unnoticed  pass)  these  scrolls  to  him — 
The  fugitive  Provencal      Read  and  judge ! 

Pro.   Where  is  this  messenger? 

Mon.  Where  should  he  be  ? — 

They  slew  him  in  their  wrath. 

Pro.  Unwisely  done  1 

Give  me  the  scrolls.  [He  r 

Now.  if  there  be  such  things 
As  may  to  death  add  sharpness,  yet  delay 
The  pang  which  gives  release  ,  if  there  be  power 
In  execration,  to  call  down  the  fires 
Of  yon  avenging  heaven,  whose  rapid  shafts 
But  for  such  guilt  were  aimless  ;  be  they  heaped 
Upon  the  traitor's  head  !     Scorn  make  his  name 
Her  mark  forever ! 

Mon.  In  our  passionate  blindness. 

We  send  forth  curses  whose  deep  stings  recoil 
Oft  on  ourselves. 

pro.  Whate'er  fate  hath  of  ruin 

Fall  on  his  house  !     What !  to  resign  again 
That  freedom  for  whose  sake  our  souls  have  now 
Engrained  themselves  in  blood  !     Why,  who  is  he 
That  hath  devised  this  treachery  ?     To  the  scroll 
Why  fixed  he  not  his  name,  so  stamping  it 


532     '  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

With  an  immortal  infamy,  whose  brand 

Might  warn  men  from  him  ?     Who  should  be  so  vile  ? 

Albert!  ? — in  his  eye  is  that  which  ever 

Shrinks  from  encountering  mine  ! — But  no  !   his  race 

Is  of  our  noblest.     Oh  !   he  could  not  shame 

That  high  descent !     Urbino  ? — Conti  ? — No ! 

They  are  too  deeply  pledged.    There's  one  name  more  ! 

— I  cannot  utter  it !     Now  shall  I  read 

Each  face  with  cold  suspicion,  which  doth  blot 

From  man's  high  mien  its  native  royalty, 

And  sea.  his  noble  forehead  with  the  impress 

Of  its  own  vile  imaginings !     Speak  your  thoughts, 

Montalba !  Guida  ! — Who  should  this  man  be  ? 

Mon.   Why,  what  Sicilian  youth  unsheathed  last  night 
His  sword  to  aid  our  foes,  and  turned  its  edge 
Against  his  country's  chiefs  ? — He  that  did  this, 
May  well  be  deemed  for  guiltier  treason  ripe. 

Pro.  And  who  is  he  ? 

Mon.  Nay,  ask  thy  son. 

Pro.  My  son ! 

What  should  he  know  of  such  a  recreant  heart  ? 
Speak,  Guido !  thou'rt  his  friend  ! 

Gui.  I  would  not  wear 

The  brand  of  such  a  name  ! 

Pro.  How  ?  what  means  this  ? 

A  flash  of  light  breaks  in  upon  my  soul ! 
Is  it  to  blast  me  ?  yet  the  fearful  doubt 
Hath  crept  in  darkness  through  my  thoughts  before, 
And  been  flung  from  them.     Silence  ! — Speak  not  yet! 
I  would  be  calm  and  meet  the  thunder-burst 
With  a  strong  heart.  [A  pause 

Now,  what  have  I  to  hear  ? 
Your  tidings  ? 

Gui  •    Briefly,  'twas  your  son  did  thus  I 

He  hath  disgraced  your  name. 

Pro  My  son  did  thus ! 

Are  thy  words  oracles,  that  I  should  search 
Their  hidden  meaning  out  ?     What  did  my  son  ? 
I  have  forgot  the  tale.     Repeat  it,  quick! 

Gui.  'Twill  burst  upon  thee  all  too  soon.     While  we 
Were  busy  at  the  dark  and  solemn  rites 
Of  retribution ;  while  we  bathed  the  earth 
In  red  libations,  which  will  consecrate 
The  soil  they  mingled  with  to  freedom's  step 
Through  the  long  march  of  ages  :  'twas  his  task 
To  shield  from  danger  a  Proven9al  maid, 
Sister  of  him  whose  cold  oppression  stung 
Our  hearts  to  madness. 

Mon  What !   should  she  be  spared 

To  keep  that  name  from  perishing  on  earth  ? 
— I  crossed  them  in  their  path,  and  raised  my  sword 
To  smite  her  in  her  champion's  arms.     We  fought. 


THE  VESPEKS  OF  PALERMO.  533 

The  boy  disarmed  me  !    And  I  live  to  tell 
My  shame,  and  wreak  my  vengeance ! 

Gut.  Who  but  he 

Could  warn  De  Couci,  or  devise  the  guilt 
These  scrolls  reveal  ?     Hath  not  the  traitor  still 
Sought,  with  his  fair  and  specious  eloquence, 
To  win  us  from  our  purpose  ?    All  things  seem 
Leagued  to  unmask  him. 

Moii.  Know  you  not  there  came. 

E'en  in  the  banquet's  hour,  from  this  De  Couci, 
One,  bearing  unto  Eribert  the  tidings 
Of  all  our  purposed  deeds  ?    And  have  we  not 
Proof,  as  the  noon-day  clear,  that  Raimond  loves 
The  sister  of  that  tyrant  ? 

Pro.  There  was  one 

Who  mourned  for  being  childless!     Let  him  now 
Feast  o'er  his  children's  graves,  and  I  will  join 
The  revelry  ! 

Mon.  (apart}.    You  shall  be  childless  too  ! 

Pro.  Wast  you,  Montalba  ! — Now  rejoice,  I  say ! 
There  is  no  name  so  near  you,  that  its  stains 
Should  call  the  fevered  and  indignant  blood 
To  your  dark  cheek  !     But  I  will  dash  to  earth 
The  weight  that  presses  on  my  heart,  and  then 
Be  glad  as  thou  art. 

Mon.  What  means  this,  my  lord  ? 

Who  hath  seen  gladness  on  Montalba's  mien  ? 

Pro.  Why,  should  not  all  be  glad  who  have  no  sons 
To  tarnish  their  bright  name  ? 

Mon.  I  am  not  used 

To  bear  with  mockery. 

Pro.  Friend!  by  yon  high  Heaven, 

I  mock  thee  not!     Tis  a  proud  fate  to  live 
Alone  and  unallied.     Why,  what's  alone  ? 
A  word  whose  sense  \s-free  /—Ay,  free  from  all 
The  venomed  stings  implanted  in  the  heart 
By  those  it  loves.     Oh  !  I  could  laugh  to  think 
O'  the  joy  that  riots  in  baronial  halls, 
WThen  the  word  comes—"  A  son  is  born  !  "—A  son! 
They  should  say  thus—"  He  that  shall  knit  your  brow 
To  furrows,  not  of  years— and  bid  your  eye 
Quail  its  proud  glance  to  tell  the  earth  its  shame, 
Is  born,  and  so  rejoice  !  "—Then  might  we  feast 
And  know  the  cause !    Were  it  not  excellent  ? 

Mon.  This  is  all  idle.    There  are  deeds  to  do : 
Arouse  thee,  Procida ! 

Pro.  Why,  am  I  not 

Calm  as  immortal  justice !     She  can  strike, 
And  yet  be  passionless — and  thus  will  I 
I  know  thy  meaning.     Deeds  to  do  !— 'tis  well. 
They  shall  be  done  ere  thought  on.     Go  ye  forth : 
There  is  a  youth  who  calls  himself  my  son,  ; 


$34  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

His  name  is  Raimond — in  his  eye  is  light 
That  shows  like  truth — but  be  not  ye  deceived ! 
Bear  him  in  chains  before  us.     We  will  sit 
To-day  iu  judgment,  and  the  skies  shall  see 
The  strength  which  girds  our  nature.     Will  not  this 
Be  glorious,  brave  Montalba  ?     Linger  not, 
Ye  tardy  messengers  !  for  there  are  things 

Which  ask  the  speed  of  storms.  [Exeunt  GUIDO  andother* 

Is  not  this  well  ? 

Mon.  'Tis  noble.     Keep  thy  spirit  to  this  proud  height — 
(Aside.)    And  then  be  desolate  like  me  !     My  woes 
Will  at  the  thought  grow  light. 

Pro.  What  now  remains 

To  be  prepared  ?  There  should  be  solemn  pomp 
To  grace  a  day  like  this.  Ay,  breaking  hearts 
Require  a  drapery  to  conceal  their  throbs 
From  cold  inquiring  eyes  ;  and  it  must  be 
Ample  and  rich,  that  so  their  gaze  may  not 
Explore  what  lies  beneath.  [Exit  PROCIDA. 

Mon.  Now  this  is  well  ! 

— I  hate  this  Procida ;  for  he  hath  won 
In  all  our  councils  that  ascendancy 
And  mastery  o'er  bold  hearts,  which  should  have  been 
Mine  by  a  thousand  claims.     Had  he  the  strength 
Of  wrongs  like  mine  ?     No!  for  that  name — his  country — 
He  strikes  ;  my  vengeance  hath  a  deeper  fount : 
But  there's  dark  joy  in  this  ! — And  fate  hath  barred 
My  soul  from  every  other.  [Exit  MONTALBA. 

SCENE   II. — A  Hermitage  surrounded  by  the  Ruins  of  an  Ancient  Temple. 

CONSTANCE,  ANSELMO. 

Con.  'Tis  strange  he  comes  not  1     Is  not  thfs  the  still 
And  sultry  hour  of  noon  ?     He  should  have  been  . 
Here  by  the  daybreak.     Was  there  not  a  voice  ? 
— "  No !  'tis  the  shrill  cicada,  with  glad  life 
Peopling  these  marble  ruins,  as  it  sports 
Amidst  them  in  the  sun."     Hark  !  yet  again  ! 
No!  no!  forgive  me,  father  !  that  I  bring 
Earth's  restless  griefs  and  passions,  to  disturb 
The  stillness  of  thy  holy  solitude  : 
My  heart  is  full  of  care. 

Ans.  There  is  no  place 

So  hallowed  as  to  be  unvisited 
By  mortal  cares.    Nay,  whither  should  we  go 
With  our  deep  griefs  and  passions,  but  to  scenes 
Lonely  and  still,  where  He  that  made  our  hearts 
Will  speak  to  them  in  whispers  ?    I  have  known 
Affliction  too,  my  daughter. 

Con.  Hark  !  his  step  ! 

I  know  it  well — he  comes — my  Raimond,  welcome ! 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  535 

VlTTORlA  enters,  CONSTANCE  shrinks  back  on  perceiving  her. 
Oh,  Heaven  !  that  aspect  tells  a  fearful  tale. 

Vit.  (not  observing  her}     There  is  a  cloud  of  horror  on  my 

soul ; 

And  on  thy  words,  Anselmo,  peace  doth  wait, 
Even  as  an  echo,  following  the  sweet  close 
Of  some  divine  and  solemn  harmony  : 
Therefore  I  sought  thee  now.     Oh  !  speak  to  me 
Of  holy  things  and,  names,  in  whose  deep  sound 
Is  power  to  bid  the  tempests  of  the  heart 
Sink,  like  a  storm  rebuked. 

A ns  What  recent  grief 

Darkens  thy  spirit  thus  ? 

Vit.  I  said  not  grief. 

We  should  rejoice  to-day,  but  joy  is  not 
That  which  it  hath  been.     In  the  flowers  which  wreathe 
Its  mantling  cup,  there  is  a  scent  unknown. 
Fraught  with  a  strange  delirium.     All  things  now 
Have  changed  their  nature  :  still,  I  say,  rejoice ! 
There  is  a  cause,  Anselmo !     We  are  free — 
Free  and  avenged  !     Yet  on  my  soul  there  hangs 
A  darkness,  heavy  as  the  oppressive  gloom 
Of  midnight  fantasies..     Ay,  for  this,  too, 
There  is  a  cause. 

Ans.  How  sayest  thou,  we  are  free  ?— • 

There  may  have  raged,  within  Palermo  s  walls, 
Some  brief  wild  tumult ;  but  too  well  I  know 
They  call  the  stranger  lord. 

Vit.  Who  calls  the  dead 

Conqueror  or  lord?     Hush!  breathe  it  not  aloud, 
The  wild  winds  must  not  hear  it !     Yet  again, 
I  tell  thee  we  are  free  ! 

Ans.  Thine  eye  hath  looked 

On  fearful  deeds,  for  still  their  shadows  hang 
O'er  its  dark  orb.     Speak!  I  adjure  thee  :  say, 
How  hath  this  work  been  wrought  ? 

Vit.  Peace  !  ask  me  not  I 

Why  shouldst  thou  hear  a  tale  to  send  thy  blood 
Back  on  its  fount  ?     \Ve  cannot  wake  them  now ! 
The  storm  is  in  my  soul,  but  they  are  aH 
At  rest !— Ay,  sweetly  may  the  slaughtered  babe 
By  its  dead  mother  sleep  ;  and  warlike  men, 
Who,  'midst  the  slain  have  slumbered  oft  before, 
Making  their  shield  their  pillow,  may  repose 
Weil,  now  their  toils  are  done.— Is't  not  enough  ? 

Con.  Merciful  heaven !  have  such  things  been  /    And  yet 
There  is  no  shade  come  o'er  the  laughing  sky  I 
— I  am  an  outcast  now 

Ans.  O  Thou  whose  ways 

Clouds  mantle  fearfully  !  of  all  the  blind 
But  terrible  ministers  that  work  thy  wrath, 
How  much  is  man  the  fiercest !    Others  know 


TffE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Their  limits — yes  !  the  earthquakes,  and  the  storms, 

And  the  volcanoes  ! — he  alone  o'erleaps 

The  bounds  of  retribution  !     Couldst  thou  gaze, 

Vittoria !  with  thy  woman's  heart  and  eye, 

On  such  scenes  unmoved  ? 

Vit.  Was  it  for  me 

To  stay  the  avenging  sword  ?     No,  though  it  pierced 
My  very  soul !     Hark  !  hark !  what  thrilling  shrieks 
Ring  through  the  air  around  me !     Canst  thou  not 
Bid  them  be  hushed  ?    Oh  !  look  not  on  me  thus  ! 

Ans.  Lady!  thy  thoughts  lend  sternness  to  the  looks 
Which  are  but  sad  I     Have  all  then  perished  ? — all  ? 
Was  there  no  mercy  ? 

Vit.  Mercy  !  it  hath  been 

A  word  forbidden  as  the  unhallowed  names 
Of  evil  powers.     Yet  one  there  was  who  dared 
To  own  the  guilt  of  pity,  and  to  aid 
The  victims  ! — but  in  vain.     Of  him  no  more  ! 

He  is  a  traitor,  and  a  traitor's  death 

Will  be  his  meed. 

Con.  (coming  forward).     Oh,  heaven  !— his  name,  his  namel 
Is  it — it  cannot  be  ! 

Vit.  (starting).  Thou  here,  pale  girl ! 

I  deemed  thee  with  the  dead !     How  hast  thou  'scaped 

The  snare  !     Who  saved  thee,  last  of  all  thy  race ! 

Was  it  not  he  of  whom  I  spake  e'en  now, 

Raimond  di  Procida  ? 

Con.  Is  it  enough. 

Now  the  storm  breaks  upon  me,  and  I  sink. 

Must  he  too  die  ? 

Vit.  Is  it  e'en  so  ?     Why  then, 

Live  on — thou  hast  the  arrow  at  thy  heart  ! 

"  Fix  not  on  me  thy  sad  reproachful  eyes  " — 

I  mean  not  to  betray  thee.    Thou  mayst  live! 

Why  should  death  bring  thee  his  oblivious  balms  I 

He  visits  but  the  happy.     Didst  thou  ask 

If  Raimond  too  must  die  ?    It  is  as  sure 

As  that  his  blood  is  on  thy  head,  for  thou 

Didst  win  him  to  this  treason. 

Con.  When  did  men 

Call  mercy  treason  ?    Take  my  life,  but  save 

My  noble  Raimond ! 

Vit.  Maiden  1  he  must  die. 

E'en  now  the  youth  before  his  judges  stands  ; 

And  they  are  men  who,  to  the  voice  of  prayer, 

Are  as  the  rock  is  to  the  murmured  sigh 

Of  summer  waves  I — ay,  though  a  father  sit 

On  their  tribunal.     Bend  thou  not  to  me. 

What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Con.  Mercy  ! — Oh  !  wert  thou  to  plead 

But  with  a  look,  e'en  yet  he  might  be  saved  ! 

If  thou  hast  ever  loved — 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  537 


Vit.  If  I  have  loved  ? 

It  is  ///rt/love  forbids  me  to  relent. 
I  am  what  it  hath  made  me.     O'er  my  soul 
Lightning  hath  passed,  and  seared  it.     Could  I  weep 
I  then  might  pity — but  it  will  not  be. 

Con.  Oh  !  thou  wilt  yet  relent,  for  woman's  heart 
Was  formed  to  suffer  and  to  melt. 

Vit.  Away ! 

Why  should  I  pity  thee  ?    Thou  wilt  but' prove 
What  I  have  known  before — and  yet  1  live ! 
Nature  is  strong,  and  it  may  all  be  borne — 
The  sick  impatient  yearning  of  the  heart 
For  that  which  is  not ;  and  the  weary  sense 
Of  the  dull  void,  wherewith  our  homes  have  been 
Circled  by  death  ;  yes,  all  things  may  be  borne ! 
All,  save  remorse.     Hut  I  will  not  bow  down 
My  spirit  to  that  dark  power ;  there  was  no  guilt ! 
Anselmo  !  wherefore  didst  thou  talk  of  guilt  ? 

Ans.  Ay,  thus  doth  sensitive  conscience  quicken  thought, 
Lending  reproachful  voices  to  a  breeze, 
Keen  lightning  to  a  look. 

Vit..  Leave  me  in  peace ! 

Is't  not  enough  that  I  should  h'ave  a  sense 
Of  things  thou  canst  not  see,  all  wild  and  dark, 
And  of  unearthly  whispers,  haunting  me 
With  dread  suggestions,  but  that  thy  cold  words, 
Old  man,  should  gall  me,  too  ?    Must  all  conspire 

Against  me  ? O  thou  beautiful  spirit !  wont 

To  shine  upon  my  dreams  with  looks  of  love, 

Where  art  thou  vanished  ?    Was  it  not  the  thought 

Of  thce  which  urged  me  to  the  fearful  task, 

And  wilt  thou  now  forsake  me?    I  must  seek 

The  shadowy  woods  again,  for  there,  perchance, 

Still  may  thy  voice  be  in  my  twilight  paths; 

—Here  \  but  meet  despair  !  {Exit  VlTTORU. 

Ans.  (to  CONSTANCE).    Despair  not  thou, 
My  daughter !     He  that  purifies  the  heart 
With  grief  will  lend  it  strength. 

Con.  (endeavoring  to  rouse  herself).    Did  she  not  say 
That  some  one  was  to  die  ? 

Am.  I  tell  thee  not 

Thy  pangs  are  vain — for  nature  will  have  way. 
Earth  must  have  tears  :  yet  in  a  heart  like  thine, 
Faith  may  not  yield  its  puce. 

Con.  Have  I  not  heard 

Some  fearful  tale  ?— Who  said  that  there  should  res» 
Blood  on  my  soul  ?     What  blood  ?     I  never  bore 
Hatred,  kind  father  !  unto  aught  that  breathes  : 
Raimond  doth  know  it  well.     fcaimond  !— High  heaven  1 
It  bursts  upon  me  now !     And  he  must  die ! 
For  my  sake — e'en  for  mine  I 

^w.  Her  words  were  strange, 


538  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


And  her  proud  mind  seemed  half  to  frenzy  wrought 
— Perchance  this  may  not  be. 

Con.  It  must  not  be. 

Why  do  I  linger  here  ?  \She  rises  to  depart. 

Ans.  Where  wouldst  thou  go  ? 

Con.  To  give  their  stern  and  unrelenting  hearts 
A  victim  in  his  stead. 

Ans.  Stay !  wouldst  thou  rush 

On  certain  death  ? 

Con.  I  may  not  falter  now. 

— Is  not  the  life  of  woman  all  bound  up 
In  her  affections  ?     What  hath  she  to  do 
In  this  bleak  world  alone  ?     It  may  be  well 
For  man  on  his  triumphal  course  to  move, 
Uncumbered  by  soft  bonds ;  but  we  were  born 
For  love  and  grief. 

Ans.  Thou  fair  and  gentle  thing, 

Unused  to  meet  a  glance  which  doth  not  speak. 
Of  tenderness  or  homage  !  how  shouldst  thou 
Bear  the  hard  aspect  of  unpitying  men, 
Or  face  the  King  of  Terrors  ? 

Con.  There  is  strength 

Deep-bedded  in  our  hearts,  of  which  we  reck 
But  little,  till  the  shafts  of  heaven  have  pierced 
Its  fragile  dwelling.     Must  not  earth  be  rent 
Before  her  gems  are  found  ? — Oh  !  now  I  feel 
Worthy  the  generous  love  which  hath  not  shunned 
To  look  on  death  for  me  !     My  heart  hath  given 
Birth  to  as  deep  a  courage,  and  a  faith 
As  high  in  its  devotion.  [Exit  CONSTANCE 

Ans.  She  is  gone  ! 

Is  it  to  perish  ? — God  of  mercy !  lend 
Power  to  my  voice,  that  so  its  prayer  may  save 
This  pure  and  lofty  creature !  I  will  follow — 
But  her  young  footsteps  and  heroic  heart 
Will  bear  her  to  destruction,  faster  far 
Than  I  can  track  her  path.  [Exit  ANSELMO. 

SCENE  III.— Hall  of  a  Public  Building. 

PROCIDA,  MONTALBA,  GUIDO,  and  others,  seated  as  on  a 
Tribunal. 

Pro.  The  morn  lowered  darkly  ;  but  the  sun  hath  now, 
With  fierce  and  angry  splendor,  through  the  clouds 
Burst  forth,  as  if  impatient  to  behold 
This  our  high  triumph. — Lead  the  prisoner  in. 

[RAIMOND  is  brought  in,  fettered  and  guarded. 
Why,  what  a  bright  and  fearless  brow  is  here  I 
Is  this  man  guilty  ?     Look  on  him,  Montalba  ! 

Man.  Be  firm.     Should  justice  falter  at  a  look? 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  53$ 

Pro.     No,  thou  sayest  well.     Her  eyes  are  filleted 
Or  should  be  so.     Thou,  that  dost  call  thyself — 
But  no  i  I  will  not  breathe  a  traitor's  name — 
Speak  !  thou  art  arraigned  of  treason. 

Kaim.  I  arraign 

You,  before  whom  I  stand,  of  darker  guilt, 
In  the  oright  face  of  heaven  ;  and  your  own  hearts 
Give  echo  to  the  charge.     Your  very  looks 
Have  ta'en  the  stamp  of  crime,  and  seem  to  shrink, 
"With  a  perturbed  and  haggard  wildness,  back 
From  the  too-searching  light.     Why,  what  hath  wrought 
This  change  on  noble  brows  ':    There  is  a  voice 
With  a  deep  answer,  rising  from  the  blood 
Your  hands  have  coldly  shed  !     Ye  are  of  those 
From  whom  just  men  recoil  with  curdling  veins, 
All  thrilled  by  life's  abhorrent  consciousness. 
And  sensitive  feeling  of  a  murderer's  presence 
— Away !  come  down  from  your  tribunal  seat, 
Put  off  your  robes  of  state,  and  let  your  mien 
Be  pale  and  humbled;  for  ye  bear  about  you 
That  which  repugnant  earth  doth  sicken  at. 
More  than  the  pestilence.    That  I  should  live 
To  see  my  father  shrink  ! 
"  Pro.  Montalba,  speak ! 

There's  something  chokes  my  voice — but  fear  me  not 

Man.  If  we  must  plead  to  vindicate  our  acts, 
Be  it  when  thou  hast  made  thine  own  look  clear, 
Most  eloquent  youth !     What  answer  canst  thou  make 
To  this  our  cha'rge  of  treason  ? 

Kaim.  I  will  plead 

That  cause  before  a  mightier  judgment-throne, 
Where  mercy  is  not  guilt.     But  here  I  feel 
Too  buoyantly  the  glory  and  the  joy 
Of  my  free  spirit's  whiteness  ;  for  e'en  now 
The  embodied  hideousness  of  crime  doth  seem 
Before  me  glaring  out     Why,  I  saw  thee, 
Thy  foot  upon  an  aged  warrior's  breast, 
Trampling  out  nature's  last  convulsive  heavings. 
And  thou  thy  sword— O  valiant  chief! — is  yet 
Red  from  the  noble  stroke  which  pierced  at  once 
A  mother  and  the  babe,  whose  little  life 
Was  from  her  bosom  drawn  !— Immortal  deeds 
For  bards  to  hymn ! 

Cm.  (aside. )  I  look  upon  his  mien, 

And  waver.     Can  it  be?    My  boyish  heart 
Deemed  him  so  noble  once  !     Away,  weak  thoughts  I 
Why  I  should  I  shrink,  as  if  the  guilt  were  mine, 
From  his  proud  glance  ? 

pro  O  thou  dissembler  !  thou, 

So  skilled  to  clothe  with  virtue's  generous  flush 
The  hollow  cheek  of  cold  hypocrisy, 
That,  with  thy  guilt  made  manifest,  I  can  scarce 


54<>  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Believe  thee  guilty! — look  on  me,  and  say 

Whose  was  the  secret  warning  voice,  that  saved 

De  Couci  with  his  bands,  to  join  our  foes, 

And  forge  new  fetters  for  the  indignant  land  ? 

Whose  was  this  treachery  ?  [Shows  him  papers, 

Who  hath  promised  here 
(Belike  to  appease  the  manes  of  the  dead) 
At  midnight  to  unfold  Palermo's  gates, 
And  welcome  in  the  foe?     Who  hath  done  this, 
But  thou — a  tyrant's  friend  ? 

Raim.  Who  hath  done  this? 

Father ! — If  I  may  call  thee  by  that  name — 
"Look,  with  thy  piercing  eye,  on  those  whose  smiles 
Were  masks  that  hid  their  daggers      There,  perchance, 
-  May  lurk  what  loves  not  light  too  strong.     For  me, 
I  know  but  this — there  needs  no  deep  research 
To  prove  the  truth  that  murderers  may  be  traitors, 
Even  to  each  other. 

Pro.  (toMoNTALBA.)  His  unakeriug  cheek 
Still  vividly  doth  hold  its  natural  hue. 
And  his  eye  quails  not !     Is  this  innocence  ? 

Man.     No  !  'tis  the  unshrinking  hardihood  of  crime. 
— Thou  bearest  a  gallant  mien.     But  where  is  she 
Whom  thou  hast  bartered  fame  and  life  to  save, 
The  fair  Provenfal  maid  ?     What !  knowest  thou  not 
That  this  alone  were  guilt,  to  death  allied  ? 
Was't  not  our  law  that  he  who  spared  a  foe 
(And  is  she  not  of  that  detested  race  ?) 
Should  thenceforth  be  amongst  us  as  a  foe  ! 
— Where  hast  thou  borne  her  ? — speak ! 

Raim.  That  heaven,  whose  eye 

Burns  up  thy  soul  with  its  far-searching  glance, 
Is  with  her :  she  is  safe. 

Pro.  And  by  that  word 

Thy  doom  is  sealed.     Oh,  God  !  that  I  had  died 
Before  this  bitter  hour,  in  the  full  strength 
And  glory  of  my  heart ! 

CONSTANCE  enters,  and  rushes  to  RAIMOND. 

Con.  Oh  !  art  thou  found  ? 

—But  yet,  to  find  thee  thus!     Chains,  chains  for  thee  I 
My  brave,  my  noble  love  !     Off  with  these  bonds; 
Let  him  be  free  as  air :  for  I  am  come 
To  be  your  victim  now. 

Raim.  Death  has  no  pang 

More  keen  than  this.     Oh !  wherefore  art  thou  here  ? 
I  could  have  died  so  calmly,  deeming  thee 
Saved,  and  at  peace. 

Con.  At  peace! — And  thou  hast  thought 

Thus  poorly  of  my  love !    But  woman's  breast 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  541 

Hath  strength  to  suffer  too.     Thy  father  sits 
On  this  tribunal;  Raimond,  which  is  he? 

Raim.   My  father  !  who  hath  lulled  thy  gentle  heart 
With  that  false  hope  ?     Beloved!  gaze  around — 
See  if  thine  eye  can  trace  a  father's  soul 
In  the  dark  looks  bent  on  us. 

[CONSTANCE,  after  earnestly  examining  the  ceutiteiuiHCM 

of  the  Judges,  falls  at  the  feel  of  PROCIDA. 
Con.  Thou  art  he ! 

Nay,  turn  thou  not  away !  for  I  beheld 
Thy  proud  lip  quiver,  and  a  watery  mist 
Pass  o'er  thy  troubled  eye  ;  and  then  I  knew 
Thou  wert  his  father  !     Spare  him  !  take  my  life  I 
In  truth,  a  worthless  sacrifice  for  his, 
But  yet  mine  all.     Oh  !  he  hath  still  to  run 
A  long  bright  race  of  glory. 

Raim.  Constance,  peace ! 

I  look  upon  thee,  and  my  failing  heart 
Is  as  a  broken  reed. 

Con.  (still addressing  PROCIDA.)  Oh,  yet  relent 
If  'twas  his  crime  to  rescue  me,  behold 
I  come  to  be  the  atonement !     Let  him  live 
To  crown  thine  age  with  honor.     In  thy  heart 
There's  a  deep  conflict ;  but  great  Nature  pleads 
With  an  o'ermastering  voice,  and  thou  wilt  yield  I 
— Thou  art  his  father  ! 

Pro.  (after  a  pause.)  Maiden,  thou'rt  deceived ! 
I  am  as  calm  as  that  dead  pause  of  nature 
Ere  the  full  thunder  bursts.     A  judge  is  not 
Father  or  friend.     Who  calls  this  man  my  son  ? 

ffty  Son  1     Ay !  thus  his  mother  proudly  smiled — 

But  she  was  noble  !     Traitors  stand  alone, 
Loosed  from  all  ties.     Why  should  I  trifle  thus  ? 
— Bear  her  away ! 

Raim.     (starting forward.}  And  whither? 
Mon.  .    Unto  death. 

Why  should  she  live,  when  all  her  race  have  perished  ? 

Con.  (sinking  into  the  arms  IT/" RAIMOND.) 
Raimond,  farewell  1     Oh  1  when  thy  star  hath  risen 
To  its  bright  noon,  forget  not,  best  beloved ! 
I  died  for  thee. 

Raim.     High  Heaven  !  thou  see'st  these  things, 
And  yet  endurest  them !     Shalt  thou  die  for  me, 
Purest  and  loveliest  being  ?— but  our  fate 
Mav  not  divide  us  long.     Her  check  is  col< 
Her  deep  blue  eyes  are  closed:  should  this  be  death 
If  thus,  there  yet  were  mercy!     Father,  father! 
—Is  thy  heart  human? 

Pr0f  Bear  her  hence,  I  say  I 

Why  must  my  soul  be  torn  ? 


542  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


ANSELMO  enters,  holding  a  Crucifix. 

Ans.  Now,  by  this  sign 

Of  heaven's  prevailing  love  !  ye  shall  not  harm 
One  ringlet  of  her  head.     How  !  is  there  not 
Enough  of  blood  upon  your  burdened  souls  ? 
Will  not  the  visions  of  your  midnight  couch 
Be  wild  and  dark  enough,  but  ye  must  heap 
Crime  upon  crime  ?     Be  ye  content :  your  dreams, 
Your  councils,  and  your  banquetings,  will  yet 
Be  haunted  by  the  voice  which  doth  not  sleep, 
E'en  though  this  maid  be  spared!     Constance,  look  up! 
Thou  shalt  not  die. 

Raim.  Oh  !  death  e'en  now  hath  veiled 

The  light  of  her  soft  beauty.     Wake,  my  love  ! 
Wake  at  my  voice. 

Pro.  Anselmo,  lead  her  hence, 

And  let  her  live,  but  never  meet  my  sight. 
— Begone  !  my  heart  will  burst. 

Raim.  One  last  embrace! 

— Again  life's  rose  is  opening  on  her  cheek; 
Yet  must  we  part.     So  love  is  crushed  on  earth! 
But  there  are  brighter  worlds ! — Farewell,  farewell  ! 

[He  gives  her  to  the  care  of  ANSELMO. 

Con.    (slowly  recovering.}     There  was  a  voice  which  called  me 

Am  I  not 

A  spirit  freed  from  earth  ?     Have  I  not  passed 
The  bitterness  of  death  ? 

Ans.  Oh,  haste  away  ! 

Con.     Yes  !  Raimond  calls  me.     He  too  is  released 
From  his  cold  bondage.     We  are  free  »t  last 
And  all  is  well.    Away  ! 

[She  is  led  out  by  ANSELMO. 

Raim.  The  pang  is  o'er, 

And  I  have  but  to  die. 

Man.  Now,  Procida, 

Comes  thy  great  task.     Wake  !  summon  to  thine  aid 
All  thy  deep  soul's  commanding  energies  ; 
For  thou — a  chief  among  us — must  pronounce 
The  sentence  of  thy-son.     It  rests  with  thee. 

Pro.   Ha  !   ha  !    Men's  hearts  should  be  of  softer  mould 
Than  in  the  elder  time.     Fathers  could  doom 
Their  children  then  with  an  unfaltering  voice, 
And  we  must  tremble  thus  !     Is  it  not  said 
That  nature  grows  degenerate,  earth  being  now 
So  full  of  days  ? 

Mon.  Rouse  up  thy  mighty  heart. 

Pro.     Ay,  thou  sayst  right.     There  yet  are  souls  which  towei 
As  landmarks  to  mankind.     Well,  what's  the  task? 
—There  is  a  man  to  be  condemned,  you  say  ? 
Is  he  then  guilty  ? 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  $43 

All.  Thus  we  deem  of  him, 

With  one  accord. 

Pro.  And  hath  he  naught  to  plead  ? 

Raim.     Naught  but  a  soul  unstained. 

Pro.  Why,  that  is  little. 

Stains  on  the  soul  are  but  as  conscience  deems  them, 
And  conscience  may  be  seared.     But  for  this  sentence  ! 
— Wast  not  the  penalty  imposed  on  man, 
E'en  from  creation's  dawn,  that  he  must  die ' 
It  was:  thus  making  guilt  a  sacrifice 
Unto  eternal  justice  ;  and  we  but 
Obey  heaven's  mandate  when  we  cast  dark  souls 
To  the  elements  frorn  among  us.     Be  it  so  I 
Such  be  his  doom !  I  have  said.     Ay,  now  my  heart 
Is  girt  with  adamant,  whose  cold  weight  doth  press 
Its  gaspings  down.     Off !  let  me  breathe  in  freedom  ! 
— Mountains  are  on  my  breast !  \He  sinks  back. 

Man.  Guards,  bear  the  prisoner 

Back  to  his  dungeon. 

Ruirn.  Father !  oh,  look  up ; 

Thou  art  my  father  still ! 

Gui.  (leaving  the  tribunal,  throws  himself  on  the  neck  ^RAIMOND) 

Oh  !  Raifnond,  Raimond  ! 
If  it  should  be  that  I  have  wronged  thee,  say 
Thou  dost  forgive  me. 

Raim.  Friend  of  my  young  days, 

So  may  all-pitying  heaven !  [RAIMOND  is  led  out. 

Pro.  Whose  voice  was  that  ? 

Where  is  he  ?— gone  ?    Now  I  may  breathe  once  more 
In  the  free  air  of  heaven.     Let  us  away.  [Exeunt  omnes. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — A  prison  dimly  lighted. 
RATMOND  sleeping.    PROCIDA  enters. 

Pro.  (gazing  upon  him  earnestly.)     Can  he  then  sleep  ? 

The  o'ershadowing  night  hath  wrapt 
Earth  at  her  stated  hours  ;  the  stars  have  set 
Their  burning  watch  ;  and  all  things  hold  their  course 
Of  wakefulness  and  rest  ;  yet  hath  not  sleep 
Sat  on  mine  eyelids  since— but  this  avails  not  ! 
And  thus  he  slumbers  !    "  Why,  this  mien  doth  seem 
As  if  its  soul  were  but  one  lofty  thought 
Of  an  immortal  destinv  !  "—his  biow 
Is  calm  as  waves  whereon  the  midnight  heavens 


544  THE   VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Are  imaged  silently.     Wake,  Raimond  !  wake  .' 
Thy  rest  is  deep. 

Raim.  (starting  up.)     My  father !     Wherefore  here  ? 
I  am  prepared  to  die,  yet  would  I  not 
Fall  by  thy  hand. 

Pro.  'Twas  not  for  this  I  came. 

Raim.  Then  wherefore  ?  and  upon  thy  lofty  bror 
Why  burns  the  troubled  flush  ? 

Pro.  Perchance  'tis  shame 

Yes,  it  may  well  be  shame ! — for  I  have  striven 
With  nature's  feebleness,  and  been  o'erpowered. 
— Howe'er  it  be,  'tis  not  for  t/iee  to  gaze, 
Noting  it  thus.     Rise,  let  me  loose,  thy  chains. 
Arise,  and  follow  me ;  but  let  thy  step 
Fall  without  sound  on  earth :  I  have  prepared 
The  means  for  thy  escape. 

Raim.  What !  thou  !  the  austere 

The  inflexible  Procida !  hast  thou  done  this, 
Deeming  me  guilty  still ! 

Pro.  Upbraid  me  not  ! 

It  is  even  so.     There  have  been  nobler  deeds 
By  Roman  fathers  done, — but  I  am  weak. 
Therefore,  again  I  say,  arise  !  and  haste, 
For  the  night  wanes.     Thy  fugitive  course  must  be 
To  realms  beyond  the  deep  ;  so  let  us  part 
In  silence,  and  forever. 

Raim.  Let  him  fly 

Who  holds  no  deep  asylum  in  his  breast 
Wherein  to  shelter  from  the  scoffs  of  men  ; 
— I  can  sleep  calmly  here. 

Pro.  Art  thou  in  love 

With-  death  and  infamy,  that  so  thy  choice 
Is  made,  lost  boy  !  when  freedom  courts  thy  grasp  : 

Raim.     Father  !  to  set  the  irrevocable  seal 
Upon  that  shame  wherewith  ye  have  branded  me, 
There  needs  but  flight.     What  should  I  bear  from  this 
My  native  land  ? — A  blighted  name,  to  rise 
And  part  me,  with  its  dark  remembrances, 
Forever  from  the  sunshine !     O'er  my  soul 
Bright  shadowings  of  a  nobler  destiny 
Float  in  dim  beauty  through  the  gloom  ;  but  here 
On  earth  my  hopes  are  closed. 

Pro.  Thy  hopes  are  closed ! 

And  what  were  they  to  mine  ? — Thou  wilt  not  fly! 
Why,  let  all  traitors  flock  to  thee,  and  learn 
How  proudly  guilt  can  talk  ! — Let  fathers  rear 
Their  offspring  henceforth,  as  the  free  wild-birds 
Foster  their  young :  when  these  can  mount  alone, 
Dissolving  nature's  bonds,  why  should  it  not 
Be  so  with  us  ? 

Raim.  Oh,  father  !  now  I  feel 

What  high  prerogatives  belong  to  death. 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  545 


He  hath  a  deep  though  voiceless  eloquence, 
To  which  I  leave  my  cause.     "  His  solemn  veil 
Doth  with  mysterious  beauty  clothe  our  virtues, 
And  in  its  vast  oblivious  folds,  forever 
Give  shelter  to  our  faults."     When  I  am  gone, 
The  mists  of  passion  which  have  dimmed  my  name 
Will  melt  like  day-dreams;  and  my  memory' then 
Will  be — not  what  it  should  have  been— for  I 
Must  pass  without  my  fame — but  yet  unstained 
As  a  clear  morning  dewdrop.     Oh  !  the  grave 
Hath  rights  inviolate  as  a  sanctuary's, 
And  they  should  be  my  own  ! 

Pro.  Now,  by  just  heaven 

I  will  not  thus  be  tortured  ! — Were  my  heart 
But  of  thy  guilt  or  innocence  assured, 
I  could  be  calm  again.     "  But  in  this  wild 
Suspense — this  conflict  and  vicissitude 
Of  opposite  feelings  and  convictions — What ! 
Hath  it  been  mine  to  temper  and  to  bend 
All  spirits  to  my  purpose  !  have  I  raised 
With  a  severe  and  passionless  energy, 
From  the  dread  mingling  of  their  elements, 
Storms  which  have  rocked  the  earth  ? — and  shall  I  now 
Thus  fluctuate  as  a  feeble  reed,  the  scorn 
And  plaything  of  the  winds  ?"     Look  on  me,  boy! 
Guilt  never  dared  to  meet  these  eyes  and  keep 
Its  heart's  dark  secret  close. — O  pitying  heaven ! 
Speak  to  my  soul  with  some  dread  oracle, 
And  tell  me  which  is  truth. 

Raim.  I  will  not  plead. 

I  will  not  call  the  Omnipotent  to  attest 
My  innocence.     No,  father  !  m  thy  heart 
I  know  my  birthright  shall  be  soon  restored  ; 
Therefore  I  look  to  death,  and  bid  thee  speed 
The  great  absolver. 

Pro.  O  my  son  !  my  son  ! 

We  will  not  part  in  wrath  !     The  sternest  hearts, 
Within  their  proud  and  guarded  fastnesses, 
Hide  something  still,  round  which  their  tendrils  cling 
With  a  close  grasp,  unknown  to  those  who  dress 
Their  love  in  smiles.     And  such  wert  thou  to  me  ! 
The  all  which  taught  me  that  my  soul  was  cast 
In  nature's  mould.     And  I  must  now  hold  on 
My  desolate  course  alone  !     Why,  be  it  thus ! 
He  that  doth  guide  a  nation's  star,  should  dwell 
High  o'er  the  clouds,  in  regal  solitude, 
Sufficient  to  himself. 

Raim.  Yet,  on  the  summit, 

When  with  her  bright  wings  glory  shadows  thee, 
Forget  not  him  who  coldly  sleeps  beneath, 
Vet  might  have  soared  as  high  ! 

Pro.  No,  fear  thou  not  I 


546  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Thou'lt  be  remembered  long.     Tl\e  canker-worm 
O'  the  heart  is  ne'er  forgotten. 

Raim.  "  Oh  !  not  thus— 

I  would  not  thus  be  thought  of." 

Pro.  Let  me  deem 

Again  that  thou  art  base  ! — for  thy  bright  looks, 
Thy  glorious  mien  of  fearlessness  and  truth, 
Then  would  not  haunt  me  as  the  avenging  powers 
Followed  the  parricide.     Farewell,  farewell ! 
I  have  no.  tears      Oh  !  thus  thy  mother  looked, 
When,  with  a  sad,  yet  half-triumphant  smile, 
All  radiant  with  deep  meaning,  from  her  death-bed 
She  gave  thee  to  my  arms. 

Raim.  Now  death  has  lost 

His  sting,  since  thou  believest  me  innocent! 

Pro  (wildly)!)     Thou  innocent!    Am  I  thy  murderer,  then ? 
Away  !  I  tell  thee  thou  hast  made  my  name 
A  scorn  to  men  !     No !  I  will  not  forgive  thee  ; 
A  traitor!     What!  the  blood  of  Procida 
Filling  a  traitor's  veins  ?     Let  the  earth  drink  it. 
Thou  wouldst  receive  our  foes  ! — but  they  shall  meet 
From  thy  perfidious  lips  a  welcome,  cold 
As  death  can  make  it.     Go,  prepare  thy  soul ! 

Raim.     Father !  yet  hear  me ! 

Pro.  No  !  thou'rt  skilled  to  make 

E'en  shame  look  fair.     Why  should  I  linger  thus  ? 

[Going  to  leave  the  prison,  he  turns  back  for  a  moment  ] 
If  there  be  aught — if  aught — for  which  thou  needest 
Forgiveness — not  of  me,  but  that  dread  power 
From  whom  no  heart  is  veiled — delay  thou  not 
Thy  prayer, — time  hurries  on 

Raim.  I  am  prepared 

Pro.    'Tis  well.  [Exit  PROCIDA, 

Raim.     Men  talk  of  torture  ! — Can  they  wreak 
Upon  the  sensitive  and  shrinking  frame, 
Half  the  mind  bears  and  lives?     My  spirit  feels 
Bewildered  ;  on  its  powers  this  twilight  gloom 
Hangs  like  a  weight  of  earth.     It  should  be  morn  ; 
Why,  then,  perchance,  a  beam  of  heaven's  bright  sun 
Hath  pierced,  ere  now,  the  grating  of  my  dungeon, 
Telling  of  hope  and  mercy !  [Exit  into  an  inner  cell. 

SCENE  II. — A  street  of  Palermo. 
Many  Citizens  assembled. 

1st  Cit.  The  morning  breaks ;  his  time  is  almost  come ; 
Will  he  be  led  this  way  r 

2</  Cit.  Ay,  so  'tis  said, 

To  die  before  that  gate  through  which  he  purposed 
The  foe  should  enter  in  J 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  543 

Zd  Cit.  'Twas  a  vile  plot ! 

And  yet  I  would  my  hands  were  pure  as  his 
From  the  deep  stain  of  blood.     Didst  hear  the  sounds 
I'  the  air  last  night? 

2<i  Cit-  Since  the  great  work  of  slaughter, 

Who  hath  not  heard  them  duly  at  those  hours 
Which  should  be  silent  ? 

3d  Cit.  Oh  !  the  fearful  mingling, 

The  terribly  mimicry  of  human  voices, 
In  every  sound,  which  to  the  heart  doth  speak 
Of  woe  and  death. 

~d  Cit.  Ay,  there  was  woman's  shrill 

And  piercing  cry ;  and  the  low  feeble  wail 
Of  dying  infants  ;  and  the  half-suppressed 
Deep  groan  of  man  in  his  last  agonies ! 
And,  now  and  then,  there  swelled  upon  the  breeze 
Strange,  savage  bursts  of  laughter,  wilder  far 
Than  all  the  rest. 

ist  Cit.  Of  our  own  fate,  perchance, 

These  awful  midnight  waitings  may  be  deemed 
An  ominous  prophecy.  Should  France  regain 
Her  power  among  us,  doubt  not,  we  shall  have 
Stern  reckoners  to  account  with. — Hark  ! 

\_Tke  sound  of  trumpets  heard  at  a  distance. 

2d  Cit.  'Twas  but 

A  rushing  of  the  breeze. 

3</  Cit.  E'en  now,  'tis  said, 

The  hostile  bands  approach. 

\The  sound  is  heard  gradually  drawing  nearer, 

2d  Cit.  Again  !  that  sound 

Was  no  illusion.     Nearer  yet  it  swells — 
They  come,  they  come ! 

PROCIDA  enters. 
Pro.  The  foe  is  at  your  gates ; 

But  hearts  and  hands  prepared  his  onset 

Why  are  ye  loitering  here  ? 

Cit.  My  lord,  we  came— 

Pro.  Think  ye  I  know  not  wherefore  ?— 'twas  to  see 

A  fellow-being  die  !    Ay,  'tis  a  sight 

Man  loves  to  look  on ;  and  the  tenderest  hearts 

Recoil,  and  yet  withdraw  not  from  the  scene. 

For  this  ye  came.    What!  is  our  nature  fierce, 

Or  is  there  that  in  mortal  agony 

From  which  the  soul,  exulting  in  its  strength, 

Doth  learn  immortal  lessons  ?     Hence,  and  arm  I 

Ere  the  night-dews  descend,  ye  will  have  seen 

Enough  of  death  ;  for  this  must  be  a  day 

Of  battle  I     Tis  the  hour  which  troubled  souls 

Delight  in,  for  its  rushing  storms  are  wings 

Which  bear  them  up  !     Arm!  arm !  'tis  for  your  homes, 

And  all  that  lends  them  loveliness— away !  [Exeunt. 


5-0  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

SCENE  III. — Prison  of  RAIMOND. 
RAIMOND,  ANSELMO. 

Raim.  And  Constance  then  is  safe  I     Heaven  bless  thee, 

father ! 
Good  angels  bear  sjuch  comfort. 

Ans.  I  have  found 

A  safe  asylum  for  thine  honored  love, 
Where  she  may  dwell  until  serener  days, 
With  Saint  Rosalia's  gentlest  daughters — those 
Whose  hallowed  office  is  to  tend  the  bed 
Of  pain  and  death,  and  soothe  the  parting  soul 
With  their  soft  hymns :  and  therefore  are  they  called 
"  Sisters  of  Mercy." 

Raim.  Oh  !  that  name,  my  Constance, 

Befits  thee  well !     E'en  in  our  happiest  days, 
There  was  a  depth  of  tender  pensiveness 
Far  in  thine  eyes'  dark  azure,  speaking  ever 
Of  pity  and  mild  grief.     Is  she  at  peace  ? 

Ans.  Alas  !  what  should  I  say  ? 

Raim.  Why  did  I  ask  ? 

Knowing  the  deep  and  full  devotedness 
Of  her  young  heart's  affections  ?     Oh  !  the  thought 
Of  my  untimely  fate  will  haunt  her  dreams, 
Which  should  have  been  so  tranquil ! — and  her  soul, 
Whose  strength  was  but  the  lofty  gift  of  love, 
Even  unto  death  will  sicken. 

Ans.  All  that  faith 

Can  yield  of  comfort,  shall  assuage  her  woes ; 
And  still,  whate'er  betide,  the  light  of  heaven 
Rests  on  her  gentle  heart.     But  thou,  my  son! 
Is  thy  young  spirit  mastered,  and  prepared 
For  nature's  fearful  and  mysterious  change  ? 

Raim.  Ay,  father  !  of  my  brief  remaining  task 
The  least  part  is  to  die  !     And  yet  the  cup 
Of  life  still  mantled  brightly  to  my  lips, 
Crowned  with  that  sparkling  bubble,  whose  proud  nam« 
Is — glory  !     Oh  !  my  soul,  from  boyhood's  morn, 
Hath  nursed  such  mighty  dreams  !     It  was  my  hope 
To  leave  a  name,  whose  echo  from  the  abyss 
Of  time  should  rise,  and  float  upon  the  winds 
Into  the  far  hereafter ;  there  to  be 
A  trumpet-sound,  a  voice  from  the  deep  tomb, 
Murmuring — Awake  ! — Arise !     But  this  is  past  I 
Erewhile,  and  it  had  seemed  enough  of  shame 
To  sleep  forgotten  in  the  dust ;  but  now — 
Oh  God ! — the  undying  record  of  my  grave 
Will  be — Here  sleeps  a  traitor  ! — One  whose  crime 
Was — to  deem  brave  men  might  find  nobler  weapons 
Than  the  cold  murderer's  dagger ! 

Ans.  Oh  1  my  son, 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  5  V 

Subdue  these  troubled  thoughts  !     Thou  wouldst  not  change 
Thy  lot  for  theirs,  o'er  whose  dark  dreams  will  hang 
The  avenging  shadows,  which  the  blood-stained  soul 
Doth  conjure  from  the  dead  I 

Raim.  Thou'rt  right.     I  would  n«t 

Yet  'tis  a  weary  task  to  school  the  heart, 
Ere  years  or  griefs  have  tamed  its  fiery  spirit 
Intp  that  still  and  passive  fortitude, 
Which  is  but  learned  from  suffering.     Would  the  hour 
To  hush  these  passionate  throbbings  were  at  hand ! 

Ans.  It  will  not  be  to-day.     Hast  thou  not  heard 
— But  no — the  rush,  the  trampling,  and  the  stir 
Of  this  great  city,  arming  in  her  haste, 
Pierce  not  these  dungeon-depths.    The  foe  hath  reached 
Our  gates,  and  all  Palermo's  youth,  and  all 
Her  warrior  men,  are  marshalled,  and  gone  forth, 
In  that  high  hope  which  makes  realities, 
To  the  red  field.    Thy  father  leads  them  on. 

Raim.    (starting  up).     They  are  gone   forth !   my  father 

leads  them  on ! 

All — all  Palermo's  youth  !     No  !  one  is  left, 
Shut  out  from  glory's  race  !     They  are  gone  forth ! 
Ay,  now  the  soul  of  battle  is  abroad — 
It  burns  upon  the  air  !     The  joyous  winds 
Are  tossing  warrior-plumes,  trie  proud  white  foam 
Of  battle's  roaring  billows  !     On  my  sight 
The  vision  bursts — it  maddens !  'tis  the  flash, 
The  lightning-shock  of  lances,  and  the  cloud 
Of  rushing  arrows  and  the  broad  full  blaze 
Of  helmets  in  the  sun !    The  very  steed 
With  his  majestic  rider  glorying  shares 
The  hour's  stern  joy,  and  waves  his  floating  mane 
As  a  triumphant  banner  !     Such  things  are 
Even  now — and  I  am  here ! 

Ans.  Alas,  be  calm ! 

To  the  same  grave  ye  press, — thou  that  dost  pine 
Beneath  a  weight  of  chains,  and  they  that  rule 
The  fortunes  of  the  fight. 

Raim.  Ay  !    Thou  canst  feel 

The  calm  thou  wouldst  impart ;  for  unto  thee 
All  men  alike,  the  warrior  and  the  slave, 
Seem,  as  thou  sayest,  but  pilgrims,  pressing  on 
To  the  same  bourne.     Yet  call  it  not  the  same  : 
Their  graves  who  fall  in  this  day's  fight  will  be 
As  altars  to  their  country,  visited 
By  fathers  with  their  children,  bearing  wreaths, 
And  chanting  hymns  in  honor  of  the  dead  : 
Will  mine  be  such  ? 

VlTTORlA  rushes  in  -wildly,  as  if  pursued. 

Vit.  Ansclmo  !  art  thou  found  f 

Haste,  haste,  or  all  is  lo<t  !     Perrhanre  thy  voice. 
Whereby  they  deem  heaven  speaks,  thy  lifted  crosi. 


55°  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

And  propliet  mien,  may  stay  the  fugitives, 
Or  shame  them  back  to  die. 

Ans.  The  fugitives! 

What  words  are  these  ?    The  sons  of  Sicily 
Fly  not  before  the  foe  ? 

Vit.  That  I  should  say 

It  is  too  true  ! 

Ans.  And  thou — thou  bleedest,  lady ! 

Vit.  Peace  !  heed  not  me  when  Sicily  is  lost ! 
I  stood  upon  the  walls,  and  watched  our  bands, 
As,  with  their  ancient  royal  banner  spread, 
Onward  they  marched.     The  combat  was  begun, 
The  fiery  impulse  given,  and  valiant  men 
Had  sealed  their  freedom  with  their  blood — when,  lo! 
That  false  Alberti  led  his  recreant  vassals 
To  join  the  invader's  host. 

Raitn.  His  country's  curse 

Rest  on  the  slave  forever ! 

Vit.  Then  distrust, 

E'en  of  their  noble  leaders,  and  dismay, 
*That  swift  contagion,  on  Palermo's  bands 
Came  like  a  deadly  blight.     They  fled  ! — Oh  shame  1 
E'en  now  they  fly  !     Ay,  through  the  city  gates 
They  rush,  as  if  all  Etna's  burning  streams 
Pursued  their  winged  steps  ! 

Raim.  Thou  hast  not  named 

Their  chief — Di  Procida — he  doth  not  fly  ? 

Vit.  No  !  like  a  kingly  lion  in  the  toils, 
Daring  the  hunters  yet,  he  proudly  strives  : 
But  all  in  vain  !     The  few  that  breast  the  storm, 
With  Guido  and  Montalba,  by  his  side, 
Fight  but  for  graves  upon  the  battle-field. 

Raim.  And  I  am  here !     Shall  there  be  power,  O  God! 
In  the  roused  energies  of  fierce  despair, 
To  burst  my  heart — and  not  to  rend  my  chains  ? 
Oh,  for  one  moment  of  the  thunderbolt 
To  set  the  strong  man  free ! 

Vit.  (after gazing  upon  him  earnestly.}  Why,  'twere  a  deed 
Worthy  the  fame  and  blessing  of  all  time, 
To  loose  thy  bonds,  thou  son  of  Procida  ! 
Thou  art  no  traitor ! — from  thy  kindled  brow 
Looks  out  thy  lofty  soul !     Arise  !  go  forth ! 
And  rouse  the  nobie  heart  of  Sicily 
Unto  high  deeds  again.     Anselmo,  haste  ; 
Unbind  him  !     Let  my  spirit  still  prevail, 
Ere  I  depart — for  the  strong  hand  of  death 
Is  on  me  now.  [S/ie  sinks  back  against  a  pillar. 

Ans.  Oh,  heaven  !  the  life-blood  streams 

Fast  from  thy  heart — thy  troubled  eyes  grow  dim. 
Who  hath  done  this? 

Vit.  Before  the  gates  I  stood, 

And  in  the  name  of  him,  the  loved  and  lost, 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  551 

With  whom  I  soon  shall  be,  all  vainly  strove 
To  stay  the  shameful  flight.     Then  from  the  foe, 
Fraught  with  my  summons,  to  his  viewless  home, 
Came  the  fleet  shaft  which  pierced  me. 

A»*-  Yet,  oh  yet, 

It  may  not  be  too  late.     Help,  Help  ! 

Vit.  (to  KAIMO.ND).  Away  I 

Bright  is  the  hour  which  brings  thee  liberty! 

Attendants  enter. 

Haste,  be  those  fetters  riven.  Unbar  the  fates, 
And  set  the  captive  free  ! 

(The  Attendants  seem  to  hesitate  )    Know  ye  not  her 
Who  should  have  worn  your  country's  diadem  ? 

Alt   Oh,  lady  !  we  obey. 

[  They  take  off  RAlMOND's  chains.    He  springs  up 
e*.  ulttngly. 

Raim.  Is  this  no  dream  ? 

Mount,  eagle !  thou  art  free  !    Shall  I  then  die 
Not  'midst  the  mockery  of  insulting  crowds, 
But  on  the  field  of  banners,  where  the  brave 
Are  striving  for  an  iminortality  ? 
It  is  e'en  so  !     Now  for  bright  arms  of  proof, 
A  helm,  a  keen-edged  falchion,  and  e'en  yet 
My  father  may  be  saved  1 

Vit.  Away,  be  strong ! 

And  let  thy  battle-word,  to  rule  the  storm, 
Be  Conradin.  [He  rushes  out. 

Oh  !  for  one  hour  of  life, 

To  hear  that  name  blent  with  the  exulting  shout 
Of  victory  !  It  will  not  be !  A  mightier  power 
Doth  summon  me  away. 

AHS.  To  purer  worlds 

Raise  thy  last  thoughts  in  hope. 

Vit.  Yes  !  he  is  there, 

All  glorious  in  his  beauty  !— Conradin  ! 
Death  parted  us,  and  death  shall  reunite  ! 
He  will  not  stay— It  is  all  darkness  now ! 
Night  gathers  o'er  my  spirit.  [She  dies. 

AHS.  She  is  gone  ! 

It  is  an  awful  hour  which  stills  the  heart 
That  beat  so  proudly  once.  Have  mercy,  Heaven  ! 

[He  kneels  beside  her. 

SCENE.  IV.— Before  the  Gates  of  Palermo. 

Sicilians  flying  funiultuously  towards  the  Gates. 
Voices  (without).  Mont  joy!    Montjoy!     St.  Denis  for  Anjou! 
Proven9als,  on! 
Sicilians.  Fly,  fly,  or  all  is  lost ! 

[RAIMOND  appears  in  the  gateway,  armed,  and 
carrying  a  banner. 


552  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Raim.  Back,  back,  I  say  !  ye  men  of  Sicily! 
All  is  not  lost  I    Oh !  shame  !    A  few  brave  hearts 
In  such  a  cause,  ere  now,  have  set  their  breasts 
Against  the  rush  of  thousands,  and  sustained, 
And  made  the  shock  recoil.    Ay,  man,  free  man, 
Still  to  be  called  so,  hath  achieved  such  deeds 
As  heaven  and  earth  have  marvelled  at ;  and  souls, 
Whose  spark  yet  slumbers  with  the  days  to  come, 
Shall  burn  to  hear,  transmitting  brightly  thus 
Freedom  from  race  to  race !    Back  !  or  prepare 
Amidst  your  hearths,  your  bowers,  your  very  shrines, 
To  bleed  and  die  in  vain  !     Turn  ! — follow  me  ! 
"Conradin,  Conradin  !  " — for  Sicily 
His  spirit  fights  !     Remember  "  Conradin  !  " 

[  They  begin  to  rally  round  him. 
Ay  this  is  well  ! — Now,  follow  me,  and  charge  ! 

[  The  Provencals  rush  in,  but  are  repulsed  by 
the  Sicilians. — Exeunt. 

SCENE   V.—Parf  of  the  Field  of  Battle. 

MONT  ALBA  enters,  wounded,  and  supported  by  RAIMOND,  whose  face  is 
concealed  by  his  helmet. 

Raim.  Here  rest  thee,  warrior. 

Man.  Rest !  Ay,  death  is  rest, 

And  such  will  soon  be  mine     But,  thanks  to  thee, 
I  shall  not  die  a  captive.     Brave  Sicilian. 
These  lips  are  all  unused  to  soothing  words, 
Or  I  should  bless  the  valor  which  hath  won, 
For  my  last  hour,  the.proud  free  solitude 
Wherewith  my  soul  would  gird  itself.     Thy  name  ? 

Raim.  'Twill  be  no  music  to  thine  ear,  Montalba. 
Gaze — read  it  thus !  [fie  lifts  the  visor  of  his  helmet. 

Man.  Raimond  di  Procida ! 

Raim.  Thou  hast  pursued  me  with  a  bitter  hate  ; 
But  fare  thee  well !     Heaven's  peace  be  with  thy  soul ! 
I  must  away.    One  glorious  effort  more, 
And  this  proud  field  is  won.  [Exit  RAIMOND. 

Mon.  Am  I  thus  humbled  ? 

How  my  heart  sinks  within  me  !     But  'tis  death 
(And  he  can  tame  the  mightiest)  hath  subdued 
My  towering  nature  thus  ?     Yet  is  he  welcome  ! 
That  youth — 'twas  in  his  pride  he  rescued  me! 
I  was  his  deadliest  foe,  and  thus  he  proved 
His  fearless  scorn.     Ha  !  ha !  but  he  shall  fail 
To  melt  me  into  womanish  feebleness. 
There  I  still  baffle  him— the  grave  shall  seal 
My  lips  forever — mortal  shall  not  hear 
Montalba  say — "forgive  !  "  [ffe  ditt. 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO  553 

SCENE  VI.— Another  part  of  the  Field. 
PROCIDA,  GuiDO,  and  other  Sicilians. 

Pro.  The  day  is  ours ;  but  he,  the  brave  unknown, 
Who  turned  the  tide  of  battle— he  whose  path 
Was  victory — who  hath  seen  him  ? 

ALBERTI  is  brought  in,  wounded  and  fettered. 

AM.  Procida ! 

Pro    Be  silent,  traitor  !     Bear  him  from  my  sight 
Unto  your  deepest  dungeons. 

Alb.                                          In  the  grave 
A  nearer  home  awaits  me.    Yet  one  word 
Ere  my  voice  fail — thy  son 

Pro'.  Speak,  speak  ! 

Alb.  Thy  son 

Knows  not  a  thought  of  guilt.     That  trait'rous  plot 
Was  mine  alone.  [//*•  />  led  away. 

Pro.  Attest  it,  earth  and  heaven! 

My  son  is  guiltless  !     Hear  it,  Sicily! 
The  blood  of  Procida  is  noble  still ! 
My  son  !     He  lives,  he  lives  !     His  voice  shall  speak 
Forgiveness  to  his  sire  !     His  name  shall  cast 
Its  brightness  o'er  my  soul ! 

Cut.  O  day  of  joy  I 

The  brother  of  my  heart  is  worthy  still 
The  lofty  name  he  bears. 

ANSELMO  enters. 

Pro.  Anselmo,  welcome  I 

In  a  glad  hour  we  meet ;  for  know,  my  son 
Is  guiltless. 

Ans.  And  victorious  !     By  his  arm 

All  hath  been  rescued. 

Pro.  How ! — the  unknown 

Ans.  Was  he  f 

Thy  noble  Raimond  ! — by  Vittoria's  hand 
Freed  from  his  bondage,  in  that  awful  hour 
When  all  was  flight  and  terror. 

Pro.  Now  my  cup 

Of  joy  too  brightly  mantles  !     Let  me  press 
My  warrior  to  a  father's  heart — and  die  ; 
For  life  hath  nought  beyond.     Why  comes  he  not  ? 
Anselmo,  lead  me  to  my  valiant  boy! 

Ans.  Temper  this  proud  delight. 

Pro.  What  means  that  look?- 

He  hath  not  fallen  ? 


554  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

Ans.  He  lives. 

Pro.  Away,  away  ! 

Bid  the  wide  city  with  triumphal  pomp 
Prepare  to  greet  her  victor.     Let  this  hour 
Atone  for  all  his  wrongs !  [Exeunt. 

*      SCENE  VII. — Garden  of  a  Conven.. 
RAIMOND  is  led  in  wounded,  leaning  on  attendants. 

Kaim    Bear  me  to  no  dull  couch,  but  let  me  die 
In  the  bright  face  of  nature  !     Lift  my  helm, 
That  I  may  look  on  heaven. 

ist  Alt.  (to  2d  Attendant.)  Lay  him  to  rest 
On  this  green  sunny  bank,  and  I  will  call 
Some  holy  sister  to  his  aid  ,  but  thou 
Return  unto  the  field,  for  high-born  men 
There  need  the  peasant's  aid.  [Exit  2d  Attendant, 

(To  Kaim.)  Here  gentle  hands 

Shall  tend  thee,  warrior ;  for,  in  these  retreats, 
They  dwell  whose  vows  devote  them  to  the  care 
Of  all  that  suffer.     Mayst  thou  live  to  bless  them  ! 

[Exit  ist  Attendant. 

Kaim.  Thus  have  I  wished  to  die  J     'Twas  a  proud  strife ! 
My  father  blessed  the  unknown  who  rescued  him(> 
(Blessed  him,  alas,  because  unknown  i)  and  Guido, 
Beside  me  bravely  struggling,  called  aloud, 
"Noble  Sicilian,  on  !"     Oh  !  had  they  deemed 
Twas  I  who  led  that  rescue,  they  had  spurned 
Mine  aid,  though  'twas  deliverance  ;   and  their  looks 
Had  fallen  like  blights  upon  me.     There  is  one, 
Whose  eye  ne'er  turned  on  mine  but  its  blue  light 
Grew  softer,  trembling  through  the  dewy  mist 
Raised  by  deep  tenderness  !     Oh,  might  the  soul, 
Set  in  that  eye,  shine  on  me  ere  I  perish  ! 
— Is't  not  her  voice  ? 

CONSTANCE  enters  speaking  to  a  Nun,  who  turns  into  another  path. 

Con.  O  !  happy  they,  kind  sister, 

Whom  thus  ye  tend ;  for  it  is  theirs  to  fall 
With  brave  men  side  by  side,  when  the  roused  heart 
Beats  proudly  to  the  last !     There  are  high  souls 
Whose  hope  was  such  a  death,  and  'tis  denied  ! 

[She  approaches  RAIMONl 

Young  warrior,  is  there  aught Thou  here,  my  Raimond  ! 

Thou  here — and  thus !    Oh !  is  this  joy  or  woe  ? 

Raim    Toy  !  be  it  joy,  my  own,  my  blessed  love  I 
E'en  on  the  grave's  dim  verge.     Yes  I  it  is  joy  ! 
My  Constance  !  victors  have  been  crowned  ere  now, 
With  the  green  shining  laurel,  when  their  brows 
Wore  death's  own  impress — and  it  may  be  thus 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  555 


E'en  yet,  with  me  !     They  freed  me,  when  the  foe 
Had  half  prevailed,  and  I  have  proudly  earned, 
With  my  heart's  dearest  blood,  the  meed  to  die 
Within  thine  arms. 

Con.  Oh  I  speak  not  thus — to  die  I 

These  wounds  may  yet  be  closed.     [She  attempts  to  bind  hit  wo 

Look  on  me,  love  ! 

Why,  there  is  more  than  life  in  thy  glad  mien — 
'Tis  full  of  hope  !  and  from  thy  kindled  eye 
Breaks  e'en  unwonted  light,  whose  ardent  ray 
Seems  born  to  be  immortal  1 

Kaim  'Tis  e'en  so ! 

The  parting  soul  doth  gather  all  her  fires 
Around  her ;  all  her  glorious  hopes,  and  dreams, 
And  burning  aspirations,  to  illume 
The  shadowy  dimness  of  the  untrodden  path 
Which  lies  before  her  ;  and  encircled  thus, 
Awhile  she  sits  in  dying  eyes,  and  thence 
Sends  forth  her  bright  farewell.    Thy  gentle  cares 
Are  vain,  and  yet  I  bless  them. 

Con.  Say  not  vain  ; 

The  dying  look  not  thus.     We  shall  not  part ! 

Kaim    I  have  seen  death  ere  now,  and  known  him  wear 
Full  many  a  changeful  aspect 

Con.  Oh  !  but  none 

Radiant  as  thine,  my  warrior !  Thou  wilt  live ! 
Look  round  thee  ! — all  is  sunshine — is  not  this 
A  smiling  world  ? 

Kaim.  Ay,  gentlest  love,  a  world 

Of  joyous  beauty  and  magnificence, 
Almost  too  fair  to  leave  I     Yet  must  we  tame 
Our  ardent  hearts  to  this !    Oh,  weep  thou  not 
There  is  no  home  for  liberty,  or  love, 
Beneath  these  festal  skies !     Be  not  deceived ! 
My  way  lies  far  beyond  !    I  shall  be  soon 
That  viewless  thing,  which,  with  its  mortal  weedi 
Casting  off  meaner  passions,  yet,  we  trust, 
Forgets  not  how  to  love  ! 

Con.  And  must  this  be  ? 

Heaven,  thou  art  merciful !— Oh  !  bid  our  souls 
Depart  together  ! 

Raim  Constance !  there  is  strength 

Within  thy  gentle  heart,  which  hath  been  proved 
Nobly,  for  me  ;  arouse  it  once  again  ! 
Thy  grief  unmans  me— and  I  fain  would  meet 
That  which  approaches,  as  a  brave  man  yields 
With  proud  submission  to  a  mightier  foe. 
— It  is  upon  me  now  ! 

Con  I  wi"  1*  «'m;         . 

Let  thy  head  rest  upon  my  l>osonj.  Kami  >nd, 
And  I  will  so  suppress  its  quick  clrcp  sobs,     _ 
They  shall  but  rock  thee  to  thy  rest. 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


A  world  (ay,  let  us  seek  it  !)  where  no  blight 
Falls  on  the  beautiful  rose  of  youth,  and  there 
I  shall  be  with  thee  soon  ! 

T>ROCIDA  and  ANSELMO  enter.     PROCIDA,  on  seeing  RAIMOND,  starts  back. 

Ans.  Lift  up  thy  head, 

Brave  youth,  exultingly  1  for  lo  !  thine  hour 
Of  glory  comes  !     Oh  !  doth  it  come  too  late  ? 
E'en  now  the  false  Albert!  hath  confessed 
That  guilty  plot,  for  which  thy  life  was  doomed 
To  be  the  atonement. 

Raim.  'Tis  enough  1     Rejoice, 

Rejoice,  my  Constance  !  for  I  leave  a  name 
O'er  which  thou  mayest  weep  proudly  !  [He  sinks  bad 

To  thy  breast 

Fold  me  yet  closer,  for  an  icy  dart 
Hath  touched  my  veins 

Con.  And  must  thou  leave  me,  Raimondi 

Alas!  thine  eye  grows  dim  —  its  wandering  glance 
Is  full  of  dreams. 

Raim.  Haste,  haste,  and  tell  my  father 

I  was  no  traitor  ! 

Pro.  (rushing  forward].  To  that  father's  heart 
Return,  forgiving  all  thy  wrongs  —  return  ! 
Speak  to  me,  Raimond!  —  Thou  wert  ever  kind, 
And  brave,  and  gentle  !     Say  that  all  the  past 
Shall  be  forgiven  !     That  word  from  none  but  thee 
My  lips  e'er  asked.  —  Speak  to  me  once,  my  boy, 
My  pride,  my  hope  !     And  is  it  with  thee  thus  ? 
Look  on  me  yet  !  —  Oh  !  must  this  woe  be  borne  ? 

Raim.  Off  with  this  weight  of  chains  !  it  is  not  meet 
For  a  crowned  conqueror  !  —  Hark  !  the  trumpet's  voice  ! 

[A  sound  of  triumphant  music  is  heard  groJnaHy 

approaching, 

Is't  not  a  thrilling  call  ?     What  drowsy  spell 
Benumbs  me  thus  ?  —  Hence  !  I  am  free  again  ! 
Now  swell  your  festal  strains  —  the  field  is  won  ! 
Sing  me  to  glorious  dreams.  \He  dttt 

Ans.  The  strife  is  past  ; 

There  fled  a  noble  spirit  ! 

Con.  Hush  !  he  sleeps  — 

Disturb  him  not  ! 

Ans.  Alas  !  this  is  no  sleep 

From  which  the  eye  doth  radiantly  unclose 
Bow  down  thy  soul,  for  earthly  hope  is  o'er  ! 

[T7ie  music  continues  approaching.     GUIDO  enters, 
•with  Citizens  and  Soldiers. 

Gut.  The  shrines  are  decked,  the  festive  torches  blaze- 
Where  is  our  brave  deliverer  ?    We  are  come 
To  crown  Palermo's  victor  ! 

Ans.  Ye  come  too  late. 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  $57 

The  voice  of  human  praise  doth  send  no  echo 

Into  the  world  of  spirits.  [  The  music  eetuet. 

Pro.  (after  a  pause}.  Is  this  dust 
I  look  on — Raimond?    'Tis  but  sleep! — a  smile 
On  his  pale  cheek  sits  proudly      Raimond,  wake ! 
Oh,  God !  and  this  was  his  triumphant  day ! 
My  son,  my  injured  son  ! 

Con.  (starting).  Art  thou  his  father  ? 

I  know  thee  now.     Hence  !  with  thy  dark  stern  eye, 
And  thy  cold  heart !     Thou  canst  not  waken  him  now ! 
Away  !  he  will  not  answer  but  to  me — 
For  none  like  me  hath  loved  him !     He  is  mine/ 
Ye  shall  not  rend  him  from  me. 

Pro.  Oh !  he  knew 

Thy  love,  poor  maid !     Shrink  from  me  now  no  more! 
He  knew  thy  heart — but  who  shall  tell  him  now 
The  depth,  the  intenseness,  and  the  agony 
Of  my  suppressed  affection  ?     I  have  learned 
All  his  high  worth  in  time  to  deck  his  grave. 
Is  there  not  power  in  the  strong  spirit's  woe 
To  force  an  answer  from  the  viewless  world 
Of  the  departed  ?    Raimond  ! — speak ! — forgive ! 
Raimond  !  my  victor,  my  deliverer  !  hear  ! 
Why,  what  a  world  is  this !     Truth  ever  bursts 
On  the  dark  soul  too  late :  and  glory  crowns 
The  unconscious  dead.     There  comes  an  hour  to  break 
The  mightiest  hearts  ! — My  son  !  my  son  !  is  this 
A  day  of  triumph  !     Ay,  for  thee  alone  ! 

\He  throws  himself  upon  the  body  of  RAIMONIX 
[Curtain  ftMt. 


Ul/oD 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  657  543     5 


